Sweet Darkness
by Zettai Reido
Summary: Imprisoned in the world of pain and humiliation, Quatre has a new cellmate - a young man who's desperate to guard his secrets and fulfil his mission. Will they become more than a nuisance for each other? AU, 3x4, 5x13, 13x6, yaoi, violence. Now COMPLETE!
1. Part 1

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 1

My heart fell when the door opened. I didn't expect them to come for me this night. I knew I should've - but as hours passed, I relaxed and lost my guard. And then the lock hissed - and I saw them in the doorway. I didn't want to resist, knew how useless it was - and looking at them, I started getting up on my feet. 

It was when they pushed him inside. He'd probably given them enough trouble because they didn't unlock his wrists first - and he fell forward awkwardly. The thud made me wince sympathetically - but he didn't make a sound, stayed bowed over his knees, strands of hair obscuring his face.

He looked tired - and he didn't fight; but as he turned to look back at them - a flash of dark-green through tangled hair - there was something so defiant in his gaze that I had a sucking feeling of premonition in the pit of my stomach.

They prided themselves on not allowing any signs of defiance from us. Hannigan stepped into the cell and pressed his charge gun under the prisoner's chin. The flash was short but spectacular as usual, making the captive convulse on the floor. His hair spilled around his head, showing pale, bruised face. Hannigan looked down, apparently musing whether to shoot again.

He didn't, eventually - bent down and ran the card unlocking the cuffs from the prisoner's hands. And at the next moment the guards were gone and the door was sealed.

Only then I let out my breath; so, they hadn't come for me this time. And I had a cellmate now. For how long? I had no idea. He was not the first one during the time I'd spent there - and he might be even not the last one. Or, maybe, I was going to be the first one in a sequence of cellmates for him. I couldn't say - I didn't know what would happen to me - and those who knew were not going to inform me about it.

I didn't know if I was glad not to be alone at the moment. A part of me definitely felt contented; those long days and even longer nights in the empty cell - sometimes I was about to claw the walls. Yet it all depended on what kind of person the newcomer was; if he proved to be rough stuff and violent, my stay could turn into an endless fight. Not that I couldn't defend myself... well, yeah, like I could.

In the yellow light I looked at the captive roll his head in excruciating aftereffects of a charge gun shot. He coughed and red spattered on the floor; he must've bitten his tongue while having convulsions. Things like that happened all the time, with me, too - although one could say I should've been better prepared; but you couldn't be quite prepared to a charge gun, that's the thing.

The man coughed again and brought the hand to his mouth, wiped the blood. The trace of the cuffs was a dark stripe on his narrow wrist.

He was not a man, actually - a boy, like me or a bit older - whip-thin and dressed in some kind of uniform, burgundy-red in color. It'd probably looked very posh just recently - but now the buttons were torn off and all insignia was gone. I peered trying to identify what planet he could be from but nothing came to my mind. He could've been from some outskirts, there were so many of those secluded colonies around, all keen on their independence.

It still would've made me feel better if I knew what to expect from his kind of folks. I looked at him warily, wrapping the arms around my knees. He continued to cough - now making dry, harsh sounds. There were trickles of sweat running over his temples and I wondered if he could've been sick; I could pick up that from him, too, then. On the other hand, why did it have to worry me? Wasn't I already moving towards death here?

Yet I gazed peevishly at him until he stopped coughing. He raised on his elbow and his long bangs fell on his face again, concealing it immediately. I didn't even know if he saw me; he moved clumsily and pressed the fingers to his left side, as if checking something. I had no idea what it was but he seemed to calm down a little and started dragging himself into a sitting position.

He was silent; not even a hiss of pain - and I knew his body must've been screaming. It was all disconcerting. I wiggled uncomfortably - and it made him look at me. The iris of his only visible eye turned sea-green when capturing the light. I looked back at him, standing his gaze, trying to look cool. I didn't feel cool; I didn't trust him. He scared me, to tell the truth - there was something unnatural in how tough he acted. I hadn't been like that, not even in the beginning.

"A whore," he whispered, his voice hoarse from coughing. A little grimace of pain distorted his face as he talked. There was no disgust in his face as he ascertained my occupation, just statement of the fact. 

Well, I never made a secret out of it - and I hardly could, anyway. There was not much left of my clothes but even those gave me away - clinging knee-long pants and a top that left my belly open. 

"Hey, you have some kind of disease?" I asked frowning when he coughed again.

I saw him shiver; it was cold there, true - but something told me it was not the reason. For a little while I was sure he wouldn't answer me - or worse - and then he shrugged, wrapping the tattered jacket around his shoulders.

"It's not contagious, if you're afraid of that."

Surely looks like one, I wanted to say but didn't.

"Where are you from?" I bit my tongue at once, regretting to ask it. He could've gone mad with me... or start ignoring me demonstratively. His gaze was so cold, like transparent green glass.

"I'm a Misque."

"Ah..." 

"Does this 'ah' mean that you heard about us?"

I tried to read in his eyes - hard stare on the clean-cut young face - but there was no clue what kind of answer he expected. 

"I believe not."

"Misques could hardly be among your clients."

"Like they don't do the wicked thing," I shrugged.

"No, we don't."

"Whatever." 

His words were not said in an insulting way - just coldly - and I didn't take them as an insult. A Misque, a whore - everyone was equal there. Everyone was moving towards the only possible end.

"What's your name?" I knew my talking to him was not particularly welcome - but I couldn't help it. Whatever else - but I missed talking so much. I even tried to talk to Hannigan and others when they took me out... with almost no result, of course. "Mine is Quatre."

As if he wanted to know it. I saw him rub his temples as if in headache. Maybe, my talking caused him a headache. Then, when I already vowed to myself that I wouldn't say another word, he glanced at me and said indifferently:

"Trowa."

"Nice to meet you," a phrase popped out of me before I could catch it. Fortunately he ignored it. Trying to erase the last impression, I hastily started explaining things for him. "There's water is in the bucket in the corner - for drinking and if you want to wash yourself. They give water every morning - so, there is enough of it. In the opposite corner there is a toilet. I think they'll give you a bedding when they bring the meal. Just a blanket, actually," I demonstrated him mine, wrapped around my shoulders. I didn't even know if Trowa listened to me - his face was barely readable, half-hidden under his hair as he settled down against the wall. His eyes closed but there was a small frown of discomfort between his thin smooth eyebrows. 

My voice trailed away. I stopped talking. Well, I knew he wouldn't be interested in what I could say - why would he? And he surely wouldn't be interested in telling me anything about himself. Here was not a good place for making friends; not a good place at all.

I curled, closing my eyes and trying to sleep. The presence of someone else in the cell was curiously comforting - even though Trowa was surely one of that arrogant kind. But the truth was that listening to his breath - and thinking about him being there made me almost contented.

I started dozing off when a distant scream pierced the air. Well, it hadn't been quiet till now either - but it was the first time this night someone was made scream like that. It was not a humanoid screaming - a shrill, high-pitched sound - but full of unmistakable torment. Believe it or not, I found out that the sounds most races made in pain were somehow similar... at least those races who made sounds at all.

I tried to stay motionless all through the screaming and it was as difficult as always... I just couldn't get used to it, I didn't know why. I knew some could even sleep through that soundly - but not me. Perhaps I remembered too well how I myself had been screaming - not too long ago.

I heard Trowa move - and it was a clue for me to open my eyes. I started talking hastily, even before wondering whether he wanted to listen to me, whether he needed this information:

"You'll get used to it. Later it'll just slide over your mind and that's all. After all, we are here to be punished - what to be surprised with?"

"I am not surprised," he cut me off. I sighed; no, maybe, he wasn't.

"It'll stop soon, it's almost morning," I finished in embarrassment - and added. "I wish one couldn't hear it in the cells. Impossible to sleep - and by day it is even more impossible."

"Why?"

My heart jumped up in delight that he asked. I was surely getting weird here, treasuring every word we exchanged.

"They turn off the heating in the morning. There are only mechanical guards here by day - so, they don't see the reason to heat it. It gets *awfully* cold then."

I didn't stand cold well; and there was no way I could get used to it. So, I just went through these twelve hours of suffering every day and thought how lucky I was - since for some races cold was much more dangerous than for me.

"I can imagine that," he said impassively and closed his eyes again. 

His face looked haggard - waxen pale and colored purple under his eyes - and he kept coughing with shallow, cackling sound. His chest under the torn uniform moved oddly as well, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that left clouds of white in the air.

Did they realize there was something wrong with him, I wondered. And what would they do? Try to finish with him as soon as possible, until he died on them on his own?

Stupid, I chided myself. What did it matter how he'd die? He'd die all the same. And I'd die, too.

* * *

The screams stopped at last and I wondered absently if it was due to a confession or death of the interrogated; or did they just put it off till tomorrow? I slept then, for an hour or two, no dreams, thankfully - and opened my eyes only when the signal sounded.

The slot in the door opened and I heard a soft sound of a blanket land on the floor. I got to the door right in time before two bowls of soup and our rations landed down as well.

"Water?"

"Yes, please, sir," I raised the bucket and the guard directed the hose there, filled it quickly. The window shut in my face. Morning routine.

I heaved the bucket, slammed it on its place and turned to Trowa. He didn't even reach for the blanket or for the bowl. His tired eyes watched me without expression. I fidgeted uncomfortably.

"You will eat, won't you?"

I hated the way he looked at me; as if I was not there. The lines of his face sharpened during the last few hours and his skin was paper-like white. He shivered and that brought some animation into his face.

"It just..." he whispered and suddenly I realized he was not talking to me. "It just feels like dying... I'm not dying, really."

His hair, moist with sweat, clung to his face and his eye was black with an expanded pupil.

It was when I understood. He didn't look at me - he didn't talk to me; he probably didn't know I was there at all. He was delirious. Seriously sick.

Damn! He'd said it was not contagious! I bounced on my feet nervously, touched my own forehead checking if I had fever. It didn't feel so; my throat didn't hurt as well as I swallowed - and there was no cough. But it didn't matter, of course - it might've taken a while before the symptoms appeared.

How could they put him into my cell, I thought petulantly. As if there were no enough things I had to handle! And it was not that anything contagious for humans could affect them as well.

Damn it again! I hit the wall in exasperation and rubbed my hurt fist thoughtfully. Stupid kid... Stupid Trowa... I didn't even know if it was his name or surname.

"I can't die..." he kept whispering. "I have to bring it home. So, I won't die - they promised I won't..."

"Don't you know you shouldn't trust anyone's promises?" I asked loudly. It didn't reach him.

I picked up a bowl of soup from the floor and dipped a spoon, still looking at him. Whether he was dying or not, I still was hungry. And there was nothing I could do about it, anyway. No reason to call for the guards since there were only mechanics around there now. And, in any case, I knew better than calling for the guards.

The soup was already cold. I swallowed it quickly and looked at Trowa's portion. He probably wouldn't need it. But the guards didn't take it well when someone appropriated someone else's ration and if they saw me on the camera, I would be deep in trouble. Not that I wanted another bowl of that stuff anyway.

"You should at least use the blanket," I said - and, like before, he didn't hear me. I didn't know what I disliked more, his previous reluctant talking or his silence. "Here." I picked it up and leaned to throw it over him.

He was burning. The heat coming from his body reached me, so unexpected in the cold cell that I flinched. I looked down at him almost in disbelief. So hot... It couldn't be a good thing - and I knew it. But at the moment, I was overcome.

"Trowa! Hey you, Trowa, listen to me!" Kneeling in front of him, I shook him by the shoulders. His head lolled and his eyes blinked heavily but there was no recognition in his stare. "You said you're not contagious. Is it true? Tell me now - is it true?"

Most possibly, it didn't even matter. If I were to get sick, I would already be that. But I kept shaking him.

"Tell me!"

It was when I almost gave up as his stare stopped on me slowly - and then suddenly, to my disbelief, a quiet smile blossomed on his lips. 

His thin-fingered hand trembled in the air as he reached to my face as if blindly. The touch was scalding hot but impossibly gentle, running over my cheek and eyebrow.

"No, pretty child," he whispered elatedly. "It's safe. It's a good thing inside me... That's why they all died to protect me. It just... hurts..."

His hand felt but his wheezing breath kept going. And I still felt as if his touch burned me. Crazy, it was crazy - there was no reason why I was supposed to believe him. But somehow I did; or, maybe, I just didn't care.

I pulled the bucket towards us and wetted a corner of the blanket. I didn't even feel how cold the water was, my fingers were as cold. But Trowa's forehead was burning.

He moaned and shifted when I wiped with face with the wet cloth and as he started sliding down against the wall, I caught him, holding upon my arm. Oh God, he felt so hot. Like a piece of a living heat against me.

"Cold," he whispered. "Nice."

So, I guess it was what made both of us feel good.

Water trickled over Trowa's face, soaking into his hair. With his long bangs swept away he looked younger and somewhat more vulnerable, his eyes closed and fluttering minutely. I wiped his neck and upper chest, his unbuttoned jacket let me do it unimpeded. For a few moments, I felt hesitant about going further.

He'd told me his folks were not the ones who used services of prostitutes; so, maybe, in his sane state my touch would be contaminating for him. But what the fuck... there was no way to stay uncontaminated here. Soon he would be contaminated any way - maybe, in worse possible ways.

I pulled his jacket open and kept wiping him. He was heavy and hot - and only after a while I noticed that I didn't feel freezing as usual, even with all that water splashed over me.

"Good boy," I smiled. "Good Trowa. We'll both be good."

His skin was discolored - covered in fresh dark bruises, no doubt from his yesterday's capture. And there was a bright ropy scar on the left side under his ribs, perhaps three inches long, glaring red on his white skin. I wondered if it was what had bothered him at night.

He was half-soaked by the time I finished - and so was I. The dust on the floor around us was turned into dirt, marring his smart uniform. 

"We'd better move to another wall, you know," I said with a sigh. "And it's an inside one - not so cold."

Trowa didn't seem to react - although I could feel the fever had gone down and his breath quieted a little. I put his arm around my shoulder and dragged him on a dry place. As I was back for his blanket, I already knew what I would do. 

"You know..." I started and stopped; what was with me that I kept talking even though he didn't listen? But I just felt better informing him of my decision. If he didn't answer - well, silence means consent, right? "Some cellmates... certain species, that is... they share the body warmth. You know what I mean... it's really warmer like that."

I swallowed hard and shut up. If he were conscious, he would probably break my nose for suggesting such things. And now I was going to use his helpless state. But I did help him, wiped him with a wet blanket - didn't I deserve something in replace?

"You want us to sit... under the blankets together?"

My inner monologue - or was it not so inner - was interrupted. For a moment I stared, unable to say a word. My heart was thumping. Trowa's voice, hoarse and faint, was sane, no doubt. The wet dark eyelashes rose and his eyes, bright and transparent-green, looked at me. I gulped and kept silent.

"I guess it's a good idea."

Oh really? In a haste, while he didn't change his mind, I settled next to him, wrapped both blankets around us. His wet warm side was pressed against mine.

Once again, his warmth startled me. The fever had gone down significantly but he still was warmer than me. I wished I could nestle against him, cuddle as close as possible.

"You're wet," he said.

"You too. You are so warm..." I couldn't help it, sighed contentedly.

It was... it was almost like sexual pleasure - far better than anything I'd felt during last months - no, last years. I couldn't resist it, slid my arm under Trowa's back, trying to get as much of him as possible. He was... wonderful. 

His cough didn't bother me any more; if I were going to die of the same sick disease he had - at least I'd die warm. His shifting reminded me not to trespass, however. So far he might've tolerated it - but I was pretty sure he wouldn't much longer.

"Sorry," I whispered - and to my surprise he answered. 

"It's okay. Thank you... for help."

I grinned. Appreciation comforted me. I moved between him and the wall, made him lean against me. His weight and his heat were lulling.

His hair was like silk; short on the back of his head and not dirty yet, it was ticklish against my cheek, more pleasant than I could expect. I suddenly felt like touching him there, his warm graceful neck and soft short strands falling over the collar of his jacket. It was weird - I shouldn't have missed touching - for God's sake, they touched me enough, nearly every night. But it was different...

"Perhaps this way we'll even get some sleep," I said reasonably, just to snap out of the mood.

"What's wrong with you... that you can't ever shut up?" Trowa said quietly. And I shut up.

I dozed off; the weight of Trowa's body who unconsciously leaned on me stronger as he fell asleep didn't bother me but seemed strangely pleasant. And feeling his warm breath on my skin as he curled against me, his head on my chest, was good, too. It was almost as if he trusted me and I trusted him and we meant something for each other. Nothing of that was true, of course, I knew it - and yet somehow it made me feel warm inside, too.

He grew hotter and restless after a while and as I reached for the water, he started babbling again:

"I have to go... I have to bring it... They're waiting for me... It's my mission... I was born to serve..."

His head rolled against my chest in anxiety as he half-struggled, half-clung to me. He was pulling his jacket open, I could feel it, reached again for the place where his scar was.

"I can't fail... I can't..."

"Shh." I blew on his forehead slightly, pulled his bangs away from his face, amazed once again how soft his hair was - rocked him a little. "Of course, you can't fail. You'll do what you have to. No problem."

His body relaxed, slumped against me, his cheek pressed to my chest. For a moment I felt how my heart clenched. Poor guy. He was going to face too many demons here to be able to deal with the ones he'd brought from outside. He would need all his strength here. But did he have this strength - with all his confidence?

Maybe, I wouldn't even get to know it. Maybe, this night would be the last for me. Or the next night would be the last for him.

He woke up with a start - raised his head from my chest, sent me a weird look - and I nearly screamed as he stopped leaning against me. Half of my body went asleep under his weight and now the needles of restored circulation shot cruelly.

"You should've pushed me," he muttered, surprising me with noticing.

"It's okay."

He shrugged, getting up sluggishly. I watched him in case he was going to trip over but somehow he managed to get to the toilet and then I turned away. A little while later I felt his look on me - and as I looked back at him, his gaze was cold and shut as usual, staring from the face half-hidden under the long bangs.

"Quatre." Hmm... I didn't know he remembered my name. "Did I say something when I slept?"

For some reason I felt uncomfortable. Would he hate me for witnessing a moment of his weakness? I found it difficult to stand his gaze and that's why I stood it patiently, then shook my head.

"If you did - I didn't hear."

I tried to smile and thought I succeeded - but smile didn't visit his eyes. His voice was hard and brittle as he talked.

"Good. Because if I said something - and you think about using it to rat on me - I'll kill you. Believe me, I can do it with my bare hands."

I flinched. For some reason, I couldn't look away from his hands; pale thin fingers, longish wrists of beautiful shape - but somehow I didn't doubt they could bring death; maybe, already had done it. His hands didn't shake any more.

"I was taught to kill," he said flatly. His narrow figure stood almost straight, the traces of sickness nearly gone - or forced away. I swallowed and shook my head briefly.

"No need to threaten me, okay? I won't need to say anything to anyone. You'll tell everything yourself."

To be continued

**__**

Do you want more? Oh, you do? And I want reviews. Please C&C - and there will be more, I promise.


	2. Part 2

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 2

"I've warned you, Quatre. Remember that."

His voice sounded toneless, as cold as his gaze was - but strangely, the words had less effect on me. He must've threatened me not because he was strong but because he was desperate.

I nodded and Trowa turned away from me, walked, resting his palm against the wall; he didn't feel well, far from it. Poor baka... There was no reason why I would feel sorry for him - and then I recalled suddenly how he'd called me 'pretty child' when he was delirious; not 'whore' or something like this. Unconsciously I ran the fingers over my face where he'd touched me then. Unlike Trowa's, my hands were ice-cold. I was freezing again.

Okay, there was nothing to do about it. I bit on my thumb trying to pull myself together and then kicked off one of the blankets.

"It's yours."

A short glance through the tangled strands was dark-green; no answer came. Trowa stopped at the door, examining it closely. It was the only opening in the cell, no window or anything like that. I saw his slim hands brush over the even surface.

A brief flash of anger went through me. All right, he could do it - could pretend he didn't care for anything, there were more important things than getting warm, eating, sparing yourself a bit of pain. In a little while he'd get to know that nothing else just mattered - in this place, anyway.

"You want to escape, don't you?" Why did I ask? He never answered much. "You can't escape from here." 

His shoulder moved slightly.

"I can't, can I?"

No, you can't, I wanted to say. There had been others, before him, who'd been as sure that they could get out, could leave this place. No one had left this place alive; it was a thing I knew for sure.

The slot in the door opened and another lot of rations flopped in. I took mine and gnaw on it, watching how Trowa turned his bar in the hands.

"You'd want to eat it now, before it got hard."

He shrugged in reply and made a bit or two. It didn't go much further, his face went blank in pain as he tried to swallow. He suddenly was in front of me and handed me the bar. I looked warily at him.

"Why is that?"

"I can't... eat it anyway."

"Then put it to the trash," I said harshly. "I'm not allowed to take your food."

For a moment it seemed to me something changed in his eyes.

"I... I didn't want to get you in trouble."

You just promised to kill me, I thought sourly.

He was getting worse again, shaking and with too pale, wide-eyed face. Why didn't he lie down, I wondered and thought that I knew the answer - he was afraid he wouldn't get up again. I watched him hobble along the wall and annoyance I felt about him exchanged with sadness.

He was not going to survive here - because he didn't try to survive. Even if in fever he talked about having no right to die. But he didn't know how much it took here to stay alive.

*I* knew it just too well.

Sounds came right from behind the wall I was leaning against. I got agitated just for a moment, before realizing what it was. A normal thing... I could just let it slip over me.

"What's that?" Trowa's voice was sharp and tense.

It amused me a little that there still was something that could make him react. And I could see in his eyes that he knew what it was - who wouldn't? I enjoyed answering.

"People are trying to pass the time best they can."

"Having sex?"

"Believe it or not, it works," I said mildly. He shook his head incredulously. I closed my eyes; sighs and moans behind the wall were kind of lulling.

In the beginning, listening to it, I'd sometimes got excited. But not any more, not for weeks or months by now. What I felt at the moment was just amazement that someone could do it and enjoy it in this place.

"We are not going to do it," Trowa said levelly. 

My eyes snapped open. He collapsed on the floor at the opposite wall, as far from me and from the offensive sounds as possible. His eyes looked warily from the exhausted face.

As I gaped a little, unable to find words, he frowned, his eyes getting even darker than before.

"Don't take me wrong, it's not because you're a whore or something. It's your personal matter what to do with your body. I just... don't do such things. I want to stay out of it."

I still couldn't say a word. You fool, my mind screamed. You don't know what happens here. As if someone's going to ask you!

"Is it clear, Quatre?"

"It is," I muttered. What was the point of explaining that I didn't want to have anything with him at all? He wouldn't believe me, would he? I shivered although it was getting warmer. 

The temperature rose steadily. It meant that the night was close. As long as I was there, I still couldn't figure out what was worse - the constant cold of the day or the constant expectation of the night.

"Trowa..." He could've hated me for talking again but I just couldn't keep silent, needed to do something to beat down the panic. "They'll possibly come for us soon. Don't try to fight them. If you fight them, they'll get angry. And trust me, you won't want them angry."

For a while he didn't answer - and I was ready to talk some more, just to hear a sound of someone's voice - even of my own voice, reedy and pathetic as it was. Then he glanced at me and for a moment it seemed to me there was no animosity in his gaze.

"Why do you tell me this?"

Because I don't really care what to tell...

"Why do you care?" he asked. "What does it matter if they get angry with me or not?"

"I thought you wanted to live," I said and bit my tongue. He didn't have to know I heard what he said in delirium. But Trowa didn't notice; he probably wasn't lucid enough even now to remember what he'd said.

"What makes you think that I need your advice?" he asked harshly. "I know much more than you do about survival. You think yourself so streetwise... as if you can teach me something."

I flushed; I didn't think I still could flush - but he made me. Of course, it was true what he'd said - I couldn't teach him anything. I was amazingly successful at making a mess out of my life and winding up here. But, come to think about that, he wound up here as well.

I looked away from Trowa, stared at the door - and as if on the clue, it slid open, letting Hannigan in.

I knew I had to expect him; there had been three nights when he hadn't come for me. But seeing him still made my heart feel cold and as if too heavy to beat. His long white eyes stopped on me, the pupils focusing sharply.

"Get up, slut, today is your night of fun."

I bit the inside of my lip, kept biting it even when my mouth started filling with blood. Staying silent was a priority; alone, I sometimes couldn't cope with myself and whimpered in fear. But no way I was going to show it in front of Trowa.

Although who cared...

I got up and walked to the door. The edges of my vision were blurry and it was getting worse but I didn't mind. I didn't want to see anything. Hannigan didn't cuff me - he knew I wouldn't try to escape. His hard, enormously long fingers lay on the back of my neck, pushing me forward.

"And you get up, too." Another voice sounded behind me and I knew they talked to Trowa. I could've looked back to see what happened but my own misery wrapped me up so tightly that I didn't care, could do nothing but to make a step after step along the corridor.

There were two directions and I'd gone both of them. To the left meant an interrogation room - I'd finished with it a long time ago. To the right meant the barracks - and sometimes I thought that all the agony of interrogation it was still better than what Hannigan called 'fun'.

Yet being 'fun' was possibly the only reason why I still lived. Those who were not 'fun' - died.

"Tell me, Quatre Winner, how old were you when you became a whore?" I heard Hannigan's half-amused voice behind me. He seemed to be in the mood to talk.

"Thirteen." We had talked about it before, he knew everything I could say.

"Wasn't it a bit late? I know you humans start earlier."

"I was not supposed to become a prostitute. It just... happened. When we left Nevis... we needed to survive in some way."

"So, you are not a professional?"

"No one ever complained."

"What species did you take?"

I hated this part.

"Humans. Cadmians. Vesperi. Dellians. Aomi. You."

I knew that the conversation was pleasing him immensely - heard the slight hissing sound of the air pumped through his windpipes.

"What was the worst, whore?"

"You know you are the worst."

The blow was heavy and unexpected, throwing me face down - and I cried out involuntarily, rolling on the floor, curling into a foetus position. I knew it wouldn't help me but my body reacted instinctively. Through my fingers I looked up at Hannigan, wondering if he'd reach for his charge gun now. But he didn't need to use the charge gun - he could do enough damage just with his fists.

"Don't ever forget 'sir', bitch."

"Yes, sir. Please forgive me, sir."

He waited for me to get up, standing with his long limbs folded on his chest. He pointed towards the barracks and I walked in.

* * *

I wasn't alone there to serve them this night; there were other prisoners whose names I never knew and didn't want to know. I avoided any gaze I could meet as Hannigan walked me towards the bed - and I knew others were as little eager to see my face as I was to see theirs.

What we had to do to stay alive made none of us happy - no matter how little choice we had over that matter. But none of us would prefer to die anyway, I thought cynically.

I hadn't always been like that... so cold - so jaded. And, maybe, remembering that I'd been different was the worst thing. I remembered my sisters and their constant, unquestioning love, my father's pride and care. I remembered being clean and confident in my ability to stay worthy, no matter what. It was all in the past now; never to be back.

"Undress, slut," Hannigan said behind my back. I took off my top and pants quickly. They were my only clothes and if they got torn, I would have nothing to wear at all. I didn't need to look to feel Hannigan move behind me, get closer. His index finger traced my spine, hard, the fingernail cutting the skin in some places. The pain didn't make me shiver, dispensable as it was. He pushed me forward and I scrambled onto the bed, lay on my back looking up at the morph's spidery figure.

He touched my face impassively, neither caressing nor hurting - rather indicating his possession of me. My eyelashes trembled under his fingers but I didn't close my eyes - I knew it would be punished with a blow that would make my mouth fill with blood. There was something I could do, though, and I prayed for Hannigan to never know I did that. I tuned down my vision, unfocused my gaze until his white face became just a stain floating in front of me.

I wished I could tune down my other sensations as well. But even as it was, at some moments I almost managed to slip away, to be out there. Yet now and then Hannigan returned me to reality - his hand on my face while his other hand kept thrusting inside me as he made me look at his comrades, his voice hissing with pleasure:

"Look at him - isn't he pretty? The little prince of mine, little blond slut..."

I never knew with how many of them he shared me. Several hours later, when the last one of them retrieved his organ out of me, I felt squashed and groggy, unable to raise my head, just lying there as my blood soaked into the sheets. They'd torn me - they always did.

"Get up, whore," Hannigan's voice came - ruthless. He must've had a soft spot about me - or he wouldn't keep me for so long, wouldn't he? And yet I knew better than to expect any mercy from him.

I knew I had to get up - before he would get angry, before he used a charge gun - and I made myself roll down on the floor, then got on my fours, then pushed myself up. The room swirled around me wildly.

"Shower."

Shower was the only good thing about it all. Surely it was not done for my benefit but because their fluids became acid when coagulating on and inside my body - and next time I wouldn't be this much 'fun' for them.

The water was pure pleasure, running over my bruised body, washing off their ejaculates. I fell on my knees, my mouth half-open in pain, as I tried to wash the liquids out of my rectum. It hurt like hell but I knew it had to be done. It would be worse if I didn't do it.

I didn't hear Hannigan behind the rustle of water, just felt him embrace me from behind.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, for taking me," I whispered feeling tears well in my eyes. I just wanted to be left alone. I hadn't been crying since I was a child - but this place was getting under my skin, little by little, destroying my mind faster than it destroyed my body. 

He left me on the floor, gagging and coughing, spraying the wet tiles with blood - and it took a quarter of hour for me to be able to get up again and finish washing myself.

The cell was empty when I returned, Trowa's blanket lay in a heap at the wall just as he left it, his uneaten ration next to it. I looked around numbly, not knowing what I felt. What took them so long with him? Or was he already dead? He should've wished to be dead, I thought suddenly, if he wanted to keep this integrity of his... not having sex, huh...

I picked up the blanket and wrapped it around myself. The cell rocked around me gently, like a huge ship. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was on a ship, like that beautiful liner we all traveled with, my father's warm hand on my shoulder, my sisters next to me, giggling...

I buried the face in my arms and wailed.

"Shut up, you fuckin' kid!" someone yelled behind the wall; so, I bit on my palm and kept silent.

***********************************************************

They had never promised it would be easy. They had promised it would be endurable - and he would have at least three weeks before this thing started killing him.

Trowa remembered the huge hall on Oatta, the light dimmed, deeply colored virtual landscapes changing on the walls. The exchange carried on over his head as if he wasn't present, the Oatta's voice low and insistent.

"He's too old. Six-, seven-year-old would be perfect, wouldn't suffer any inconveniences, wouldn't feel discomfort. But his body will counteract."

In reply, Raymond Dien sounded as always - calm, level and patient.

"He's the youngest member of the delegation. We don't have any other choice and we don't have time or possibility to seek for another transporter. Anyone of us would agree to be in his place but you refuse..."

"No, no, it's out of question." For once the Oatta spoke hastily. "The vaccine will kill any adult person within days. It'll be an outright murder and a waste of the product."

"Then I don't see any ground for discussion."

Trowa sat quietly, looking at his hands folded on his lap. His participation in the conversation was not needed; and anyway, what could he say? Oatta didn't understand anything about them Misques - maybe, no one did. The readiness to die for the sake of fulfilling the mission that Raymond Dien and other showed - Trowa felt it, too. No fear, no pride for being chosen - just knowledge that he was following his duty, serving his Order and his people. His life didn't belong to him but to Misques.

Trowa still felt a small twinge of excitement and worry at the thought of what he was supposed to do. What if he'd turn out to be unworthy? What if he didn't manage... But of course he would manage - there was nothing so difficult about it.

He'd heard about the seizure-flu; the epidemic that mowed clean the whole colonies in the Northern Sector. Fortunately, the population of Trowa's own planet was immune to it. But the Northern Sector would definitely pay for the vaccine a lot. And it was a lucky chance that Misques in the travel came across Oatta who had this medicine and also had an interest in spartanium and were willing to exchange. Spartanium didn't cost much but the vaccine would cost a lot. And it was not only a question of money but of prestige as well. 

Honor for his planet - and another good deed performed by the Order of Misques.

Involuntarily, Trowa shivered. Raymond Dien didn't seem to notice it, to Trowa's relief; he should've known better than to lose self-control. The landscapes on the walls changed to seascapes, blue and green, as Trowa kept looking at them through the hay-colored web of his bangs. He loved beautiful places; and being a member of the diplomatic mission meant that he would see a lot of beautiful places all around the world.

A shadow fell over him, dulling the colors of virtual pictures to grey. Above him, the toad-like shape of the Oatta towered. The round orange eyes focused on him.

"Come with me, child," the alien said. There was no haughty note in its voice as there had been when it'd talked to Raymond Dien. Trowa wanted to say he wasn't a child, fifteen was by all means an age of maturity in Misque Order - but somehow he didn't feel like arguing. The Oatta's webbed paw touched his shoulder as he got up on his feet. 

The touch was unnecessary, adding nothing to Trowa's way and, confused, he looked at Raymond, wondering how to react. The Oatta's paw curiously felt very warm - and somewhat pleasant. Trowa had forgotten how a touch could've felt - during his years in Misque Order no one had touched him other than in game or by necessity. The alien's touch was somewhat different. Almost like... a caress?

It didn't make sense - why would the Oatta want to caress him? And anyway, Trowa hardly could know how a caress would feel. He certainly didn't know much of these in his life. Maybe, only when he was very young, below two years old - but even then Trowa didn't think his mother had ever caressed him. She must've known she would give him away once a girl would be born - so, there was no reason to get attached to him.

He still felt somehow disoriented and unable to cast this touch out of his mind as they proceeded to the surgery room. Two other delegation members joined Raymond there. 

Trowa looked at the plastic-covered cot, Oatta-sized, in the middle of the room and reached for the buttons of his jacket. The silver badge was prickly under his palm and it was when he realized his hands shook slightly.

He had still a long way to go to become a real Misque; he wondered if Raymond would chide him later for it.

"Just the jacket," the Oatta said. "And pull down your pants a little bit."

"What is it?" Raymond's voice sounded above but, lying flat, Trowa couldn't see the man any more.

"Local anesthesia."

"Is it necessary?"

"By all means, it's necessary," the Oatta snapped.

Trowa didn't feel the incision. He could see, though, how a capsule of transparent material cracked in the Oatta's paws - and a black cylinder slipped inside his body.

"He'll start feeling sick in about three hours," the Oatta talked while sealing the wound. "The symptoms are identical to the ones of seizure-flu. But it is not transmittable and it isn't lethal. At least not for a while. The cylinder must be removed within three weeks the latest, though."

"It's all right," Raymond said. "It takes seven days to reach the Northern Sector."

They took a passenger ship there. It was slower but safer in the strained situation in the region. Trowa didn't come out of his room even once on the trip. He was slightly taken aback with how bad it turned out to be. Of course, he knew that people were dying of it - but still he didn't expect the utter weakness of his body, alternating floods of hot and cold that either made him pile all available blankets over himself or left him breathing with open mouth, like a fish on a shore.

The light hurt his eyes and he kept the room dimmed, apart from the times where other members of the delegation came to visit him. They talked about his duty and the honor the Order would acquire due to him. At first Trowa felt mildly irritated with them - as if he needed to be reminded of his duty. But they surely meant well - and later he was so weak he just slipped out of lucidity as they talked.

They probably noticed he didn't listen and stopped coming - all except Raymond Dien who seemed to take a kind of charge over him. He came to leave dishes with food on Trowa's table.

"You have to eat. You can't allow weakening your body like that. You have responsibilities."

In the periods of relief Trowa managed to make himself eat a few bits. His throat was constantly sore and swallowing hurt - and eventually he gave up, flushed the food down the toilet. Raymond would be mad if he knew about it but Trowa felt so distressingly feeble and unstable that he decided he didn't care.

Only cold water was good, when Raymond brought him a glass that was misted and dripping with melted ice - and held it while Trowa drank. Raymond's long pale fingers were cold as well - and sometimes, in the weakest moments, Trowa wished Raymond touched his forehead with those fingers. Raymond never did, of course.

It must've been third or forth day when the ship stopped suddenly. At first Trowa remembered just bits and pieces - Raymond who came to his room, his jaw set hard as he waited for Trowa to dress, exasperation flaring in his dark eyes when Trowa's fingers were so awkward they couldn't cope with buttons.

"Morphs moved their post," he said through clenched teeth finally.

In the hangar the line of passengers was long and silent as they walked through the check. Trowa had never seen morphs before - and in any other case he would probably try to see and memorize as much as he could. But as it was, he had to spend all his strength on just standing upright.

"Damn freaks," he heard Raymond's voice behind him, the words hissed with as much emotion as the Misque General could allow. "Abominations."

And dangerous abominations, above all. Considered by humans a dead-end branch, the morphs managed to conquer all the center of the galaxy within last fifty years, driving humans away to previously uninhabited planets. The epidemics of seizure-flu were morphs' fault among the rest; those planets just didn't fit for humans and the humans didn't have funds or possibilities to move out there.

The uniformed creatures, tall and swift moving, paced fluidly along the line, their eyes without irises focusing briefly on the passengers. The morph-dogs on their leashes panted hard and eyed everyone warily.

A morph in a silvery helmet that encased the upper part of his face and long sheet of white hair streaming over his back stood talking to others, arms folded on his chest. His silhouette could look human, Trowa thought - if the long extra-phalange fingers didn't give him away. He wondered briefly if the species could be a hybrid between human and morph and if it was possible, taking into account the obvious high position of the man, his jacket adorned with signs generously.

"Move," Raymond whispered behind Trowa, pushing him slightly as the line walked.

Trowa made a step - and that was when one of the dogs yanked the leash, reached him in a moment, its heavy paws pushing him in the chest, its ugly muzzle shoving under his ribs, just where the cylinder was sewed into his body.

He recalled the Oatta's voice:

"You don't need to worry, the vaccine won't be shown on x-rays."

But apparently the dog could smell it.

Trowa swayed, trying to stay on his feet against the dog's weight. Blood beat in his ears and he couldn't be sure if he heard the rustle of voices behind him, Misques exchanging quiet, hasty remarks. Oh God, what was going on? Did he fuck up, after everything - let them down on their mission, couldn't do what was demanded from him? The dog's claws scratched his skin through the material of his jacket. Even with his vision going blurry Trowa still could see how the morphs moved towards him, the one with long white hair breaking his conversation, walking up as well.

"What's there? Does he have some smuggling on him?" The morphs' voices were harsh, snappy.

"He's a member of Misque Order, you insult us all by saying it, sir." It was Raymond Dien's voice.

"Misque or not Misque, the dog smells something."

The leash was jerked and the dog pulled away from Trowa - and then morphs' hard hands grabbed him and yanked him out of the line.

"Search him."

He knew it was not reasonable to fight - so, he stayed motionless even as they tore his jacket open and groped over his body. The touch over the scar made him wince involuntarily.

"He's nothing on him."

The dog was still too close, glaring at him as it was held on the leash. Trowa felt choking, agitation making his troubled breath even more difficult. He had nothing on him... so, they were supposed to let him go. They had nothing against him, they didn't have right...

"He has nothing on him. But how about *in* him?"

The voice was cold, brittly beautiful - and without looking Trowa realized that it was the human-like morph talking. He heard again how the Misques shifted and talked behind him.

"I'm certainly interested to know," the morph said, making a step towards him - and a sling blade flashed in his long-fingered, white-gloved hand.

In his feverish state of mind Trowa didn't feel so much scared as mesmerized with the knife catching the light. The morph's small mouth twisted in a mean smile as he approached.

And at the next moment everything happened. A hand grabbed Trowa's shoulder, yanking him aside, Raymond's voice against his ear said quietly and inarguably:

"Run."

The clashing of metal was already all around; Misques' traditional sabers many considered something like decorations - but they surely could use their weapons.

On the right, there was a way to the shuttle area - and Trowa knew he had to get there. A part of his mind was screaming in despair - why did they do it? Why did they fight for him? None of them apart from Raymond ever called him by his given name. And now they fenced and died for him.

The door was so close when huge, unbearable pain hit into his back, Trowa's body refusing to obey as he flopped face down on the floor, smashing his nose bloody and convulsing in pain. He would've thought he was dying - but it hurt too much to think about anything at all.

"Good work, Hannigan." The voice of the human-like morph sounded above him. Trowa tried to pull his limbs together, tried to turn - and when he did, the morph stood on one knee next to him. His gloved hand reached to Trowa's face and pushed his bangs away. For a few moments his eyes met Trowa's - blue irises and black pupils in the slits of the helmet. It couldn't be - it must've been fever - morphs' eyes were always white, not blue...

"Stupid boy," the morph said as Trowa shook his head, trying to escape the touch. "What is it you hide? Well, we'll find out."

The morph moved and his white hair brushed over Trowa's face, soft and smooth. Other morphs yanked him up on his feet and turned to face the hangar. Nine bodies in burgundy-red uniform lay on the floor motionless and the morphs moved between them, delivering control shots. Trowa didn't know if he really saw it or if it was something delirium brought to him - how Raymond's body jerked in a convulsion after this shot. But pools of bright blood, much lighter red than the one of the uniforms, was what he definitely saw.

"Take him away," the blond morph said. "I'm going to deal with him later."

To be continued

**__**

Thanks and hugs to everyone who gave me feedback to the first part. Well, the rule stays. You want more of it - you gotta C&C. Call me a bitch if you want - but there will be a new chapter only if I get reviews. And oh boy, the next chapter's gonna be something :-) Looks like some 6x3 goodies might be coming your way, ne? Or maybe not.


	3. Part 3

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 3

"Wake up!" A slap was like a flash of red, making the approaching darkness step away. Trowa felt salty, hot taste of blood filling his mouth. His head seemed too heavy, impossible to raise. Even his eyelids were too heavy but he managed to look up. The morph's long silhouette blurred in front of his eyes. Trowa saw a hand raised again, tensed involuntarily in apprehension but could do nothing to avoid another blow.

"I said stay with me," the morph said.

This one was someone Trowa hadn't seen before; neither in the hangar nor later, coming for him to the cell. Probably just some official in charge of his interrogation... and enjoying it. The morph's pale face with outturned nostrils twisted in a delightful grin as he saw Trowa shiver.

He must've thought Trowa was afraid; of more pain, of what could be done to him as he was cuffed to the chair, wrists behind his back, at the full mercy of his tormentor. But it was not pain that frightened him; Trowa knew positively he could handle it, no matter what they'd do to him. Even as his body and mind were weakened with the vaccine's effects, he still knew he could muster enough self-control not to break. 

He was more afraid of truth serum or hypnosis they could use to make him talk. Misque training included resisting that stuff as well but at the moment he felt too shaky to rely on himself.

What a shame, Trowa thought with faint self-detest; he'd let all the others die for him - and now he was not even sure of his own strength. The only thing that gave him hope was that the morph didn't seem to intend using drugs on him so far.

"Let's talk," the morph said. "Here, look at me."

His hand gripped on Trowa's hair, forcing him to look up. Another blow was directed right to his face, making Trowa's lips go numb even as he knew they were split and bleeding. Trowa coughed and spat blood on the floor.

He didn't talk. He decided on this tactic as soon as they brought him to the interrogation room. Not a word to them, not even his name. He couldn't afford any fissure in his defense - and with his head feeling heavy and overstuffed like that, he couldn't rely on his presence of mind to make good choices.

So, he looked at the morph and kept silent.

"Oh, you'll start talking." It didn't seem to faze the creature. "Sooner or later. And so far..."

Trowa knew what the thing in the morph's hands was and felt uprising panic; the cold metal of a charge gun pressed to his solar plexus and at the next moment the world whirled in a blast of pain.

He came round, shaking, feeling numb pain in his cuffed wrists; must've sprained them or something. His breath was coming in small, shallow gasps, almost akin to sobbing and Trowa clenched his teeth in shame, regaining control. Whining like a puppy... how disgraceful.

"You don't waste your time, Ivers, do you? I hope you're enjoying yourself."

The voice came from Trowa's side - soft, smooth, beautiful voice - and a hand came, too - long fingers in while silk glove - brushed Trowa's hair away from his face, touched the corner of his mouth. Blood soaked into the fingertips of the glove.

"Zechs Merquise," the morph said. "I knew you'd appear."

"I said so, didn't I?"

The helmeted morph, the one with his white smooth hair nearly waist-long, moved towards Trowa, lowered on one knee, looking in Trowa's eyes from roughly the same level. His blue eyes... definitely blue, like thawed ice - seemed to be narrowed as if in half a smile - and only then Trowa realized the man's hand still was on his face, not caressing, just staying there.

"I think I'll take over him," the man said thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Trowa. "While you didn't disfigure him or something."

Trowa didn't want to look in these eyes, wanted to look away - and realized he couldn't make himself. So much for his training, his self-control. Ivers' voice above him was sour but not opposing.

"Do as you wish, Merquise. I have other work to do."

Trowa realized the other morph stepped away, walked out of the room - but most part of his mind was occupied with struggling for control over himself. He shook his head violently, wrenching out of Zechs Merquise's touch and losing the contact with the man's eyes. His sprained wrists hurt worse, he must've been pulling on them unconsciously.

"You don't want me to touch you, do you, little Misque?"

Trowa glared at him and kept silent. Zechs got on his feet lightly and paced around.

"And you don't want to talk. You don't appreciate me sparing you from Ivers' attention, do you?"

Trowa remembered a flash of sling blade in Zechs' hand in the hangar as the morph was going to check if he was carrying something *inside* him. It was vastly arguable whether Ivers was worse than that.

"It's all right, I'm not in a hurry. I have enough time on my hands to achieve understanding between us."

And I don't, Trowa thought. In two weeks he would be dead and the vaccine would be lost.

"You think I need you to tell me something," Zechs continued, pacing, his chin in his curled palm. "Well, you're wrong, Misque. There's little I don't know about you. Trowa Barton, fifteen years old, Lieutenant of the Order, on your first mission... It wasn't a successful mission, was it? So many dead... because of you. Why did they die to protect you?"

Trowa had an answer to that: because an individual life of a Misque was worth nothing. Only the fulfillment of the mission mattered. If it was not him but some other member of the delegation, important for the mission - Trowa would probably die for him without a second thought, with the same readiness as Raymond Dien and others had demonstrated.

But the truth was that a part of his mind was asking the same question as Zechs asked: why did they die? He wasn't worth it... and if he failed now, their deaths would be in vain.

He couldn't show that Zechs' words hit the aim - couldn't reveal his weakness to the enemy. He gathered his strength to look defiantly. A fit of cough spoiled everything.

As he stopped coughing, blinking involuntary tears, he saw Zechs' mouth curve in irony.

"My goodness. You're really sick. What's wrong with you? Is it something you're doing for your Order that is killing you slowly?"

I don't care what you say, Trowa thought; you won't make me talk back.

"I know there's something," Zechs said softly, almost sweetly. His movement was so fast that Trowa didn't have time to prepare to it. He apprehended pain but Zechs' touch was gentle, hand sliding over Trowa's ribcage, inside his unbuttoned jacket, fingers running over the scar on his side. "I can find out any moment I want. But do you know what? Maybe... maybe, I prefer some mystery."

He leaned so close, saying the last words, that it sounded almost intimate, that Trowa could feel his breath, cool and odorless, on his lips. He felt like bucking, trying to get away - but it would mean that he was bothered, that the morph managed to get to him. So, he stayed motionless. A long strand of Zechs' hair fell on his face, soft and ticklish.

"You really can control yourself, can't you?" Zechs' thumb touched his mouth, Trowa's teeth sticking in his lower lip. Strange, he hadn't noticed he was biting his lip. "All that Misque stuff... But you don't deceive me. Behind that - behind the hard surface - you're as human and weak as anyone else. Just a boy... And, telling the truth, Trowa Barton - I like it. Among all those uniformed guys - you were the only one alive inside. With your fears and wishes. I'll get to them, I promise you. I know what you want. I know what you fear."

I want nothing, Trowa thought desperately. And fears... who didn't have them?

"Do you want me to touch you?" Zechs said quietly. "I see how you crave for that, how you lean into my hands. You poor boy... your body knows what feels good, even if your mind denies it."

Trowa protested silently, thrashed, trying to escape the morph's closeness. The silk of the man's hair fell like a curtain over him now. Zechs' hands pressed on his shoulders, not leaving him even that small chance of movement.

"I can make you feel good," Zechs said. "Tell me you want it."

He slipped on his knees between Trowa's legs, his gloved hands sliding over Trowa's chest and belly, moving his hips apart. It was not like Trowa could bring his legs together anyway - but Zechs added to the feeling of helplessness as his palms lay on the insides of Trowa's thighs.

The morph's face was hidden but his small mouth looked pink and soft and smiling. Zechs moved too fast again for Trowa to notice - and then the blade was in his hand, gleaming cold metal. Involuntarily, Trowa made a short gasp - and hated himself for it.

"You're afraid I'll kill you."

Trowa shook his head. A moment later he realized it was an answer, he did communicate with the foe, even if wordlessly. Zechs' laugher told him the man had noticed.

"Or you're afraid I won't kill you at once - but will make it long and painful."

The blade traced the line of the scar, without pressure, then went lower, to Trowa's abdomen. He thought about throwing himself forward on the knife. But he didn't have the right, he had his duty - and while there still was a chance, even a tiny one...

"Or I might just have some kinky sex game in mind. You humans don't consider us alive but we morphs like sex as much as the next guy."

The blade snipped the belt of his pants, cutting the material just for an inch - and even that little made Trowa shudder hugely. The blade was cold but the morph's hands on his groin were warm - unavoidable.

"And you Misques need sex as much as well," Zechs concluded.

It was not true, Trowa argued indignantly in his mind. Misques were celibate by choice, no rule demanded in from them - but no one Trowa had known would ever... And he was going to keep it this way, too.

"I'll enjoy playing with you, my green-eyed beauty," Zechs said. His mouth was smiling below the smooth edge of the helmet.

"Leave me alone."

The words came out hoarse and somehow without real strength. Trowa bit his lip in misery of breaking his silence, having no will-power even to keep his decision. Face very close to his, Zechs laughed.

"So, a cat didn't really get your tongue." 

His hands pressed on Trowa's knees heavily as he got up. 

"But I have no wish to force you. Break your knees open, wrap my mouth around your cock, suck you dry, fuck you senseless, make you beg for more... Everyone can do it. I prefer to go at my own pace. And tell you what? You interest me only while there is still something untouched in you."

Zechs' long finger tapped over Trowa's forehead and again there was no escape from this touch.

"Studying you amuses me. All the little things that you try to hide. Your fear of being violated... it's endearing, in a way. Almost as much as your wish to be taken. And your futile hopes to finish your mission... I know you still think about it. But I also know what you fear worst of all. And it is not what I or someone else can do to you. It's not even the failure in your task. It's being alone you're afraid of, right? That you'll never return to your Order or they won't accept you. You don't know anyone but them, do you - you have no one. I read the history of Misques - you're an unwanted child, a reject - your mother was the first one to cast you away. If Misques cast you away as well..."

Zechs suddenly stopped - and strangely, the words he didn't say affected Trowa more than anything he'd said. He noticed just now he was shaking, not with cold but with despair clenching his heart. Damn morph, what did he know? How could he know... Zechs' hands lay on his cheeks as the man leaned towards him like for a kiss.

"That's right, be afraid. Because you won't ever return to your Order, you won't ever see them again. All your life before now is crossed out."

Still shaking, his heart fluttering wildly, Trowa worked his mouth and spat, bloody clot landing on the smooth surface of the helmet. Zechs' eyes didn't blink. For a moment more he kept holding Trowa's face, then whispered quietly:

"You're so much like me," - and let go.

* * *

He didn't quite remember his way back to the cell, his body and mind seemed to be disjointed. The only thing Trowa was sure about was that Zechs was gone - and it made him feel such immense relief that there was no place for anything else to feel. He tried to tell himself it was unreasonable - pathetic - to be afraid like that of a morph who didn't even hurt him. But panic mixed with disgust flooded him as soon as he recalled the warm hands touching him in the intimate places, the sound of velvety voice impossible to escape.

Hitting the hard floor of his cell was almost blissful; the cold little room appeared like a kind of shelter in his muddied mind. He stayed motionless until the door locked and then looked up.

The skinny blond boy in his silver-blue glimmering clothes was already there, crouched at the wall, his huge eyes, nearly black, looking at Trowa warily, somewhat questioningly. The boy's face was streaked with drying tears and there were fresh bruises on it.

He, Quatre, could be an impostor, Trowa reminded himself - put here to pry into Trowa's secrets. He had to treat the boy with suspicion, always be on the alert with him. Tears and bruises meant nothing; it could be some ploy - Zechs and others wouldn't be above it.

"Hi," Quatre said in a small voice. "How are you?"

If he didn't want to get anything out of Trowa - why then he would talk all the time, ask those stupid questions, tell those stupid things? Maybe, they promised him some indulgence if he found out from Trowa what they wanted. Trowa looked away deliberately, wiped his face with his palm. His nose still trickled blood; the morphs really had a heavy touch.

Not looking at his cellmate, he got on his feet and walked to the bucket of water, squatted at it and washed his face. Cold drops leaked over his chest and suddenly Trowa's control snapped. Unable to be tranquil any more, he splashed the water all over himself, rubbed, scratched his skin trying to get rid of the feeling of the morph's hands on his chest and below the waist.

No, there were no traces - and come to think about that, Zechs was always wearing the gloves. But the feeling didn't want to go away, clung to his skin as Trowa kept scrubbing himself in despair. There was a ringing in his head that made all other sounds vague and distant but he still realized that the little prostitute was saying something again, in a hasty, thin voice.

He didn't want to hear Quatre, didn't need the other's meddlesome attention. His hands, numb, were awkward and his fingernails, scratching feverishly, caught the line of the scar. Fresh blood sprinkled from under it. Pain and feeling of hot fluid sliding on his chest sobered Trowa. He slumped on his knees, obscurely aware of Quatre's presence behind him. The boy hovered uncertainly, his small pale hands clasped together. Not wanting to see him, Trowa let his bangs fall over his face, shrouding his vision.

"You're hurting yourself," Quatre said. He knelt on the floor next to Trowa and Trowa started away from him unconsciously. Why did they all try to touch him... The boy was not a morph, of course, not an enemy - even if possibly a traitor. "Here, that's for you."

Quatre rummaged in his pants, not into a pocket but between the cloth and his body and pulled out a piece of white material, quite clean, handed it to Trowa. Trowa looked over the reached hand at the boy's pale, badly bruised face.

Why did they have to beat him like this, he thought half-absently. Quatre's midriff looked sore and was covered in black and blue marks as well. Surely Quatre was not a fighter and hardly could cause any trouble. The white cloth in the hand trembled slightly.

"What is it for?" Trowa asked suspiciously. His voice came out scratchy and it really hurt to speak.

"To stop the blood," Quatre said.

"I don't want anything from you..." 

The boy shook his head and put the cloth into Trowa's palm. The material still felt warm with the heat of Quatre's body.

The piece of material was probably one of very few things Quatre owned, Trowa thought suddenly - and didn't have heart to quarrel more, pressed the cloth to his scar. Blood soaked through it quickly but he held it pressed and felt the bleeding stop little by little.

Quatre got up but kept looking at him, his head tilted awry slightly. Half in annoyance, half with gratitude, Trowa glanced at him, meeting the boy's eyes. Quatre's eyes were actually blue, not black - just very dark. For a moment Trowa found himself wondering how the boy would look without that terrorized expression in his eyes.

Strange thoughts... they had nothing to do with priorities.

"Thank you," Trowa said finally, recalling that he should've said it.

"Did they rape you?" Quatre asked in his girlish lilting voice.

Trowa flinched as if slapped, staring up at that big-eyed face. How could he talk so matter-of-factly about this... this thing? Like... like it was to be expected. He sought Quatre's face for the signs of gloating or mockery but found none - just something that looked almost like sympathy there.

"No," he said through clenched teeth.

"I just thought... you were washing yourself like mad..."

"It's none of your business."

"All right," Quatre stepped away. Trowa knew his intensity, near-violence frightened the boy - and felt a brief pang of shame. But if it took that to keep Quatre away from him - he would go for it.

The boy settled down in the nest of the blanket at the wall, not looking at Trowa any more. Quatre's fair bangs fell over his eyes in some sad, dispirited manner. Trowa thought it was no good to think about it, turned away. His mouth felt parched and he gathered some water in his palms, swallowed it. Cold water didn't feel so good any more. In fact, it felt like liquid fire on his inflamed throat and seemed to land like a stone in his stomach.

Trowa shook himself, denying the weakness of his body, got on his feet and picked up the blanket.

God, he was really wet. He hadn't noticed it while trying to wash himself but now soaked clothes were clinging to his body, making him shiver. He huddled and paced a little, trying to get warm.

"Did you... did you confess?"

Quatre's voice made him stop, made him look at the boy again. Wrapped in the blanket, the boy looked particularly frail, just his pale face and small hand visible.

"What was I supposed to confess?" A sharp movement as he looked away from Quatre made pain shoot through his head and Trowa had to catch the wall not to sprawl.

So, the little whore was prying, after all, wasn't he? Not that Trowa doubted it - but it still made him feel somehow disappointed.

"Whatever they wanted you to confess."

"I've done nothing."

He thought Quatre would laugh at him, would demonstrate disbelief - but the thin voice was calm, just thoughtful.

"It doesn't matter. I've done nothing as well. I was just with that man... and, maybe, he hadn't done anything, too. But he confessed everything. And I confessed, too."

Involuntarily, Trowa wanted to ask what were the crimes Quatre took on himself but didn't have time to talk.

"Don't confess anything," Quatre said suddenly and his eyes blazed with almost impossible dark-blue at Trowa. "Once you do, they won't be interested in you any more. They'll kill you then. So, try not to do it - as long as you can. Only one day you'll just feel that you can't any more - and you'll want to die."

"Why then didn't they kill you?"

It was not that he needed the answer to this question so much - partly Trowa felt that he knew, could read it in finger-shaped bruises on Quatre's arms, swollen red traces of teeth over his collarbones. And yet the boy's words were not what he expected - Quatre's voice sounding flat and simple, all the expression gone from it.

"Maybe, I'm already dead."

Another abrupt turn made the cell swirl around him. Trowa wanted to look at Quatre, to see the boy who'd said such a thing - but all he could see was floating blackness in front of his eyes.

"You'll fall down," Quatre noticed.

So what, Trowa wanted to say. Now really, wasn't the boy stupid? He claimed to be dead inside - and yet here, was concerned with whatever happened to him, to Trowa, never stopped interfering, no matter how Trowa tried to drive him away. He pressed to the wall, seeking support for his weak legs - but it seemed to be too little. The blanket slipped on the floor as Trowa shivered. His jacket was so wet and it didn't get dry; he tried to pull it tighter over himself but without buttons it didn't want to stay together. He thought about picking up the blanket, tried to reach for it - and almost lost precarious balance that he had. He struggled as much as he could, trying to stay upright.

"Let me."

For some reason Quatre's voice sounded not from afar but quite close; weird - Trowa didn't even notice the boy get up and walk up to him. With his attention dispelled like this - he was really in danger, was he?

"Let me, I won't hurt you." Quatre gave his hand to him - not touching Trowa, he'd probably learned something, after all. "You're such a mess..."

"No more than you are," Trowa mumbled. What ever did Quatre want from him again? But the reached hand looked like a possibility, like another prop for him to support himself. And it probably was warm...

It wasn't, Quatre's fingers thin and icy - but by then Trowa didn't care any more, clasping Quatre's hand, leaning heavily against the boy. His pride reminded him that he should've declined help - but his body felt too feeble for struggling. Somehow Quatre picked up his blanket and put Trowa's arm around his neck and walked him to another wall. 

There he let Trowa slip down on the floor and started settling down next to him. For a moment, Trowa's jacket swept open and he felt Quatre's smooth midriff pressed against his bare skin.

"You really needed to get wet from head to toes?" Quatre cursed softly.

"You don't have to..." Trowa muttered but then the thought of what exactly Quatre didn't have to do slipped out of his mind.

"I don't have to," Quatre agreed. "It's just... I hate being alone. I think I'll be alone again, soon - when you die. So, before then..."

"I'll die only after three weeks," Trowa said. "No, already less. Two weeks." He didn't know how these words escaped from his mouth and, cautiously, he looked at Quatre wondering what the boy could figure out of them. Quatre sighed, shaking his head, his light bangs brushing over the golden eyelashes.

"If you say so."

He obviously thought Trowa was delirious. It was a good thing, of course, but for a short while Trowa wanted to reassure him, to make him believe that he was serious, he knew what he was talking about. He felt like telling Quatre everything - about the Misques, about his assignment, about his plans to get out of here. He wanted to tell Quatre about Zechs and the morph's impertinent touches - and, maybe, Quatre could say something that would make him feel better about it all, would make him stop feeling soiled and trespassed... or at least would make him stop feeling it was somehow his fault that he'd allowed Zechs to say and do all those things.

But of course Trowa didn't say anything like that. He felt Quatre's narrow shoulder under his cheek and wanted to back away, break the contact. He had to stop showing his weakness like that, had to stop enjoying the other's closeness and warmth so much.

He even managed to shift a little because Quatre muttered in a sleepy voice:

"What are you fidgeting?"

When did the boy have time to fall asleep? And why didn't he seem to mind Trowa's wet clothes and all the inconvenience together? He sighed, leaning against Quatre's shoulder again - and felt a thin arm wrap around him. Trowa thought some more about getting free and then whispered resignedly:

"Okay, you can hold me. Just a little bit."

Quatre's breath was soft and steady, so, maybe, he didn't even hear - and a few moments later Trowa fell sleep as well.

***********************************************************

Sand leaked in through every crack. No matter how you tried to keep it out, no matter how diligently the cleaners worked - it still layered the surfaces with a thin film of golden yellow. Only the screen of the computer that shimmered with green letters was untouched by the desert, protected by a force shield.

The man brushed the seat of the chair absently and sat down. His other palm covered a nearly empty glass with a habitual, almost unconscious gesture. His eyes, peering, inflamed with constant irritation of sand, never left the changing letters and numbers on the display.

"Almost there," the man whispered. "Just a little more."

On the surface of the table, a sketchy drawing of a rose that he'd done half an hour ago, became blurry and powdered - and with lazy fingers he resumed the contours, uncurled petals of the opened blossom. Then his hand returned to the keyboard - and there was nothing lazy in his movements any more.

He'd waited for so long for this data to be sent. And now he was getting it - and soon everything would be done; everything would be changed. Soon he'd get this opportunity to act, to bring his plans into reality.

Soon they wouldn't be able to deny the truth.

Many considered him a madman; many considered him a criminal. The man's expressive mouth twisted in a small grin at this thought as he emptied the glass in one last swallow. He, Treize Khushrenada, was neither. He knew what he was doing and, more important, what he was doing it for. He'd always known it.

Those cowards in High Command - it was easy for them to judge him, to accuse him of cruelty, of unwillingness to let bygones be bygones. But how could he - who'd seen all that - the piles of dead bodies, adult people weighing like five-year-olds, the air thick with soot of human flesh burning - how could he let it be bygones? Those who'd been there with him never judged him. For them he had been and stayed a hero, no matter what the government called him now.

A rebel; an extremist; a warmonger. Treize shrugged; he didn't care what they thought about him as long as there were people who helped him. Like this source that was sending him the plans of security system of the biggest prison that morphs created in the Central Region.

Morphs... Those abnormalities. How could it happen? The disgraceful truce with the morphs, the defeat of humans... But Treize was not going to give up. And if the government needed violence to make them pay attention - well, he would use violence. It wouldn't be the first time for him. It wouldn't be the first time he would risk his life for his homeland - even if his homeland had given up on him, had accused and convicted him for the sake of keeping flimsy good relations with their enemies.

Lies; lies and betrayal. It all made him sick. In fighting there was no lie.

The bottom of his glass was dusted with sand but Treize barely noticed it, poured another portion of colorless liquid. With a soft sound the glimpses of the letters on the screen stopped. Done! A small icon of a message flashed in the right bottom corner and he clicked on it.

__

"Good luck, Captain."

No signature; he'd probably never know who was the one risking his position and, maybe, life to provide him with this data.

He got up, called - and people flooded the room - his men, excited, thrilled, ready to act, pushing each other to get a good view of the screen.

Nothing was impossible with his people, Treize was sure of it.

"The prison looks like a mean place."

"So far so good. After we make them see what those monsters do, they won't be able to deny anything."

"When shall we start?"

"No reason to waste time."

His boy said the last phrase; even without looking Treize would recognize the voice, the tone, out of thousands; hard, cold, sound - like a click of a gun lock, of one of those heavy, shiny guns Wufei was so fond of. Slowly, Treize turned back and felt how his heart sank slightly, inevitably as it always happened as he saw the boy. How many years had they been together? Three, four? His feelings never got too old - his aching never stopped.

The thin figure was hidden under long jacket as always, sleeves almost to the tips of the fingers, high collar up to Wufei's chin. The black silk of his hair was almost lost on the black silk of the material. But the eyes stared back at Treize openly, confidently, almost with a challenge.

"Of course, Wufei," he said and couldn't resist, reached his hand and touched the thin fingers briefly. At once Treize knew it was a mistake to do it, knew it even before having done. The movement Wufei made to withdraw from him was restrained, practically unnoticeable - but Treize noticed it all right.

Did he expect it to be different? It would never be different. It was another settling he had against the morphs - his personal one - for what they had done - to him, to someone he loved...

"When we'll do it, everything will change," Treize said, trying to hush the feeling of premonition. "We'll get our honor back, our good names back."

His men replied enthusiastically. So many of them had the warrants issued on their names, the awards announced for their heads - like he did. On the table, under the layer of sand, the dog-eared papers were buried, with their faces and enumeration of their crimes. None of them was a criminal. They all simply wanted justice, didn't want to put up with the rule of deviant creatures meted out in the center of the world.

The moment others were gone, Wufei turned to him, his ink-dark eyes narrowed, flashing. The voice was so flat it seemed there was no expression in it at all - and that made it sound even more dangerous.

"If you touch me once more like that... in front of everybody... I'll break your fingers, Treize." And before Treize wanted to say he wouldn't, he'd finally learn, Wufei continued quietly. "Don't you dare to mark me as your bitch. I'm not your bitch."

"Of course, you aren't." The feeling of helplessness flooded him in a familiar wave - and even as he talked, Treize knew it was worthless, Wufei didn't hear him. "I never meant it like that. If anything, it's... the other way round." His speech slurred.

Wufei's thin ponytail whipped against his shoulder as he turned away abruptly.

"You're drunk."

"No, I'm not."

It was just the third glass today, he knew his norm. Anything more would make the world fuzzy and unclear on the edges while the third glass just made it softer, made it tolerable.

"What if your people saw you like this?"

"They saw me. They noticed nothing. It's just that you know me so well, Wufei."

A brief grimace of disdain distorted the boy's smooth face. Treize shook his head. There was nothing new in what happened. Every day it was like that - and yet every night they shared the bed - on Wufei's rules but anyway...

You're not my bitch... maybe, maybe... I'm yours.

The light of the setting sun - deep, blood red - seeped through the small window inside the room, turning the transparent liquid in Treize's glass first into rose, than into scarlet. It looked like real wine now, not the artificial processed thing one could get on this planet.

Maybe, there would be some time when he'd drink real wine again, Treize thought. If everything went as they planned with their new operation, things would change. He wouldn't need to hide any more, they would be able to move to a normal planet - he and Wufei. There would be real roses and soft grass to walk on. And maybe there Wufei would be different, too.

"I'll go check the flyers," Wufei muttered walking to the door without looking back.

"Wufei..." He couldn't let the boy go like that. "Do you think we'll make it?"

He watched the boy stop, narrow shoulders deliberately straight.

"Don't you dare not to. Do you hear, Captain?"

To be continued

**__**

Well, that's it. No 6x3, okay :-) And here's Wufei :-) Lot of thanks to everyone who gave me wonderful feedback to the first two chapters. Without you, I would never get this far. But please continue C&C if you want the story to go on, deal?


	4. Part 4

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 4

**__**

Warning: This chapter contains an implicit scene that might squick you.

The hand was clenched on Trowa's jacket so tight that the knuckles were contoured white. For a while Trowa peered at the thin fingers, aware of someone's body pressed against his and then sighed, remembering. The boy, his cellmate - Quatre. Somehow they changed their position during the sleep and now Quatre's fair head lay against Trowa's chest, the boy's breath ticklish on his skin.

His first impulse was to move, to shake the boy off - had Quatre not clasped on him so hard. As it was, Trowa decided he would bear it for a little while longer. His exhalations left clouds of white in the freezy air. So, it must've been day shift again. 

Quatre moved suddenly, just a few moments later, raised his head - and his eyes, wide and still sleepy, looked at Trowa through the strands of light-yellow hair.

"We've overslept," he said in a husky, drowsy voice.

"Overslept what?" The strange comfort of their closeness was gone as soon as Quatre shifted, and Trowa's own voice sounded hard and rather unfriendly. "Are you late somewhere?"

Quite unexpectedly, Quatre giggled - as if there was something really funny Trowa had said. A moment later the boy was on his feet, walked to the door and picked up the rations from the floor.

"I knew it. They're not good any more! Totally unpalatable."

"I'm not hungry," Trowa shrugged. It was not quite true; he was a bit hungry. He knew he didn't have fever at the moment but his head felt too light, swimming, and it might be of not eating much during last days. He still didn't think he would be up to swallowing a piece of stale-looking ration.

"Then I'm throwing them away," Quatre declared. Trowa watched the boy splash some water in his face over the bucket, teeth chattering. "You know, Trowa, what I'd really want now? A cup of really, really hot milk with four... no, five spoons of Choco Mix in it."

Trowa wanted to say something harsh about Quatre's preferences but then thought that Choco Mix sounded truly good. He'd had it only once, at a hotel, when he got up before other delegation members and no one could stop him from helping himself. Raymond Dien had lectured him for an hour after that about food being necessity, not pleasure.

Raymond was dead; dead because of him. Recalling that - and recalling how few days he still had left to fulfil his mission was like a cold shower. Trowa got up on his feet and winced in pain. The cloth, once white but now stained in brownish-red, was stuck to his side. He pulled on it and the pain grew sharper as a thin trickle of blood slid down his skin. 

"Wet it," Quatre said. There was a flicker of sympathy in the boy's eyes. Trowa frowned. He still couldn't make a conclusion about Quatre. Was he a fraud, a traitor used against him? And if yes - then how could the boy look and act so guileless, so innocent, so... sweet? Something that almost made Trowa have fancy ideas of touching Quatre, his wide-eyed face and soft hair, of finding a word for him that wouldn't be abusive or harsh but nice, gentle... fancy ideas, indeed. Trowa surely had enough self-control not to have them.

And if to think about it, Quatre was as far from innocent as one could be. He was a whore, had sold himself and didn't even hide it. All the rest was an illusion.

But then Trowa had spent two nights holding the boy - and even though his mind repeated to him in undeniable voice that it was nothing, his body still remembered it.

"Wet it," Quatre repeated, "it'll get off easier."

"I know," Trowa muttered. It really did - as he squatted next to the bucket and, shivering, drenched the cloth with cold water. The bleeding was really small, already stopped by the time the material came off. Trowa occupied himself with it pointedly, not looking at Quatre who squatted on the other side of the bucket, eyeing Trowa.

"I know, I know..." Quatre repeated. "I bet you do. You know everything, don't you?"

Quatre's small hand dipped into the water and splashed some on Trowa. For a moment Trowa looked at him, unable to believe it the boy did it on purpose. Quatre met his gaze with a brash, almost fearless smile. 

"What did you do it for?"

"For fun."

"Fun? Is it fun for you?" Almost unexpectedly for himself, Trowa reached to the bucket and splashed a handful of water at Quatre. The boy shuddered and laughed.

"Isn't it?"

Another spray of water hit Trowa's face. He pushed his wet bangs away absently. Quatre giggled as water doused him, tried to avoid it and landed on his ass. There was something nervous, nearly hysterical in his laughter and Trowa recalled Quatre's eyes red with tears yesterday. The boy's moods were swinging... but how could he be stable, in a place like this? Trowa had just spent a day and a half there and he already felt something was dented in him.

"God, I'm so cold," Quatre mumbled; his lips were bluish but he didn't look unhappy.

"Why doesn't it surprise me?"

"You'll get cold, too." Quatre got on his feet, walked up to Trowa, reached his hand. After a moment of hesitation Trowa took it. "Come under the blanket."

It came to Trowa's mind that there was not much chance to get warm in their soggy clothes - but there was nothing else to do and Quatre didn't suggest anything, despite of what Trowa could think about him. He just wiggled next to Trowa until Trowa growled at him; then Quatre went quiet.

Minutes passed in silence, the heat of their bodies fighting cold and wetness little by little. Trowa found himself mesmerized with the little steady movement of Quatre's chest against his side. After those days in prison, he'd get to know more about intimacy than probably any other Misque knew.

If only he could be sure he'd be able to come back to the Order... to compare the notes.

But he had to return to the Order, couldn't afford not to! It was a priority - it was what he had to think about. Already two days were wasted here and he, Trowa, didn't even come close to escape. At this rate, Zechs' words could turn out to be true - he would never see the Misques again, would die here...

Zechs; Trowa's stomach lurched at the thought of the morph. His mind refused to recall what else Zechs had said and done - and it was exactly the reason why Trowa made himself recall. Zechs was interested in him... so, he could've used it.

Oh no, he couldn't! An involuntary shiver that went through him was so strong it made Quatre look at him. Trowa shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to meet the boy's gaze. Somehow, Quatre probably was responsible for this thought coming to Trowa's mind at all, Quatre who had no difficulty in using his body to get through any situation. 

It all made Trowa feel faintly sick. But the truth was there was no other way, no breach in security of the prison he could use. And if he managed to make Zechs be interested enough to lose his guard... at least it was something he could start with.

Why did it have to be so unbearably difficult? It was not, right? Raymond and others had given more for him - and if to weigh everything sanely, surely getting it on with the morph was not such a great sacrifice for the sake of the mission. He'd heard of Misques sacrificing more.

"Quatre," he called in a suddenly hoarse voice.

"Ugh?" The boy's cheek was soft and warm against his shoulder and for a moment Trowa didn't want to go further, wanted just to stay as he was... and let time slip away from him irreversibly.

"Tell me... about yourself. How was it that you started... selling yourself?"

He felt as, next to him, Quatre recoiled from him minutely. The silence was very long, especially taking into account how eagerly Quatre chatted about everything, and Trowa added awkwardly:

"Can you tell me? I need to know."

Did he need to? What kind of answer could Quatre give that there would be something useful for him in it? Or was it like he wanted to derive courage from the knowledge that someone had been in a similar situation? 

Of course, Quatre's situation couldn't be similar. He, Trowa, had a mission to fulfil, he was doing it for a purpose. 

"I needed money," Quatre said. "I decided I could as well get paid for doing that."

"Was there no other way?"

"Maybe, there was. I dunno. There was one guy who... well, after I'd lost my sisters... he kind of took care of me. And then one night it... just happened. And after that he said I should earn my living. Then the guy got killed and I was on my own."

It should've been expected - there was nothing in what Quatre said that Trowa could use for his own plans about Zechs. He rubbed his temples; his head felt throbbing and heavy and Quatre's words made his headache even worse. Maybe, it was because of his repressed wish to ask more, to ask different things: how it would feel, would it be very bad to have someone touch your body in such a manner, would he feel dirty after that...

Pointless questions; Trowa knew he would do it - and would hope to gain something from that.

"It was better on my own," Quatre continued and his voice grew animated again. Trowa felt a slim arm intertwining with his again - and for some reason this touch didn't cause him aversion. He was almost pleased his questions didn't put off Quatre - although why would he feel like this? The boy was nothing for him, just a sojourner. "I could keep all money. And I traveled a lot. Some guys were fun," Quatre continued.

Fun... What a strange word, Trowa thought. Fun like splashing each other with water? Stupid idea... but for a moment Trowa thought he would miss Quatre's stupid ideas. If his plan worked, he'd get out of prison; and Quatre would stay... to die here.

He shook his head. He had to concentrate on other things, on whether he'd be able to fascinate the morph enough to make Zechs give him some slack.

The day shift was coming to the end. Quatre, who'd seemed quiet comfortable before now and kept babbling even though Trowa answered in monosyllabics, went quiet and somewhat tense. Submerged in his own scheming, Trowa decided not to pay attention.

Finally their rations landed on the floor and Trowa felt how this sound made Quatre flinch. The boy probably had another swing of the mood as his eyes became dark and huge looking at the door almost unblinkingly. He didn't even move to take the food.

He's afraid they'll come for him, Trowa thought in a sudden flash of intuition; just like they did yesterday and probably nearly every night. This understanding made him dizzy, made his headache worse. Why did he care what Quatre was afraid of? He had no reason to - he'd spent just a numbered amount of hours with the boy and it was not in the codex of Misques to care for outsiders. 

Quatre didn't matter; he had to think about Zechs.

The door slid open but the morph that stood there couldn't be taken for Zechs in any way. This one was taller and even more willowy, with short black hair smoothened away from his very pale face; the one who'd taken Quatre with him yesterday. 

Trowa felt how Quatre pressed to him, apparently without noticing it, so closely that for a few moments Trowa could feel the wild beating of the boy's heart through their two ribcages. He clenched his teeth, telling himself it was none of his business; he had to mind his own things.

"I see you two got cozy," the morph said, arms folded on his chest. His colorless lively mouth moved, twisted in irony. There was something so loathsome in his tone, almost sickening; Trowa touched his temples unconsciously; the headache made him queasy. Quatre didn't lean against him any more, sat very straight and frozen, his eyes locked on the morph. 

"What are you staring at, honey?" the morph said almost mildly. His voice was completely unlike Zechs' but the little note in it, of fake indulgence, of softness that was used just to distract, to lull - Trowa thought he recognized it. "Come to me... my personal little slut."

He watched Quatre get up and move to the door, the morph's long fingers running over the boy's shoulder. Trowa got up on his feet as well; his voice had a cracked, toneless note in it as he spoke.

"I want to see Zechs Merquise."

"Oh?" The morph turned back to him. Trowa noticed that in the corridor, there was another morph there, blank-faced, silent. "You do, don't you?"

Briefly, Trowa saw a flash of surprise in Quatre's eyes - but he didn't want to look at the boy, he needed to concentrate on his task.

"Yes, I do," he confirmed quietly. It was not that the morph needed his confirmation. The creature's eyes, white, seemed to be void of any expression but his mouth was curved in a grin.

"What a pity. I don't think Zechs Merquise wants to see you."

How much he wanted it to stop there, not to go any further. But Trowa knew he had to and pushed himself into continuing.

"Maybe, he will - if you take me to him."

A burst of laughter from the morph was long and loud; even on his companion's face, a wan smile appeared and was gone. The morph looked down at Trowa, obviously exhilarated.

"Do you really expect me to do it? And why do you want to see him, anyway? Oh wait, I know."

Trowa felt heat rise to his cheeks; the thing was that the morph really knew. The rotten creature had guessed it right, no doubt.

"Well, if you ask me really nicely, pretty boy, maybe, I'll agree to substitute Zechs for you. And if I like you a lot - who knows, I might let you take the place of my little whore." The morph's bony fingers caressed Quatre's face absently. Trowa's gaze just slid over the boy; he refused to meet Quatre's eyes, didn't want to see amazement and, maybe, hurt in them.

"You can't substitute Zechs," he said firmly.

A flash of anger dilated the morph's pupils, making them glassy. Trowa watched him step forward as the long-fingered hand sought for the charge gun - and braced himself for pain. The muzzle of the gun pressed to his ribs but he didn't see it, didn't look away from the morph's face. He stuck his fingernails so deeply in his palms that already didn't feel it - but anything was good if it helped not to show his fear. 

"Hannigan," the quiet voice of the other morph came. "You know you can't."

Can't? Why not? It didn't make sense... But the shot never came. Instead of that, the morph's face rippled - and suddenly the morph stepped away from him. Trowa swallowed, the spittle feeling sharp like broken glass in his throat. Hannigan was breathing hard, looking at him.

"Merquise said not to..." the other morph continued.

"Shut up!" Hannigan turned to him briefly. "Shut the fuck up, Kirov!"

But it was already clear, and Trowa felt dizzy with the realization. Zechs had given the orders protecting him - for some reason. And Hannigan couldn't touch him.

There must've been something in his eyes that the morph could read and interpret because Hannigan's face distorted in anger. A moment later he seemed to regain control, though. His mouth moved in a cold smile.

"Yeah, right. I'm not supposed to touch you. It's good I have someone I can vent my anger on."

The morph moved so fast, Trowa barely noticed it - turning his hand with the gun, pulling the trigger. Trowa heard a short cry Quatre made as the shot hit him; watched mortified as the boy's thin body collapsed on the floor, racked in convulsions. He became aware of Hannigan observing his reaction only a few moments later.

"Zechs has his own toys," the morph said. "But I have mine - and I'm free to do with it whatever I want."

Quatre finally stopped shivering, sat up shakily on the floor. The boy's breath was coming in short, uneven gasps, almost like sobs and Trowa recalled the agonizing pain in the chest that the charge gun brought. He clenched his fists even harder, catching Quatre's unfocused stare - as if the boy still was not quite lucid. A little trickle of red rolled from the corner of Quatre's mouth.

"Do you enjoy the performance, boy?" Hannigan talked without looking at him, coming up to Quatre, pulling the boy up on his feet. Quatre still looked disoriented, his eyes, dark and wide, slid over Trowa almost without recognition. And at the next moment his gaze stopped on Trowa with a weird expression; it should've been resentment there. But there was not; there was what looked rather like strange hope - as if he, Trowa, was the only one there who wasn't Quatre's enemy. 

Maybe, it was true. If only Quatre didn't have to pay for his, Trowa's, impertinence.

"I don't enjoy it," he said, trying to make his voice sound calm. There was no point in saying something in Quatre's defense, he told himself, all it would do would be just pissing the morph off even more.

"Too bad for you. Because I certainly do."

Hannigan's long bony fingers clasped on Quatre's arm, tossing the boy against the wall. The cry Quatre made at the impact made Trowa want to close his ears and eyes, not to hear or see any of it. His heart was thumping wildly, the beating of pulse in his temples hot and hard.

It probably would be easier if Quatre fought or screamed, didn't just take it, with this withdrawn, almost blank expression in his eyes. As if he retreated somewhere inside himself - maybe, somewhere where pain was not.

"Stand upright," the morph said disdainfully, yanking Quatre up on his feet. The boy's thin arm was already marked with fresh finger-shaped bruises. His teeth were chattering again, but now not with cold; the whole Quatre's body was shaking. The morph's fingers pressed under Quatre's chin, making him look up. Trowa could see how the boy's throat worked as he tried to swallow. There was more blood trickling from his mouth.

"Give me a kiss, little flower," Hannigan said.

Trowa looked away in disgust. A part of his brain reasoned - how he was going to do it with Zechs if he couldn't even look at it being done to someone else. But mostly he didn't think anything at all, just felt sick and faint.

"Hannigan," the other morph said. "Let's take him to the barracks, enough of that."

"Enough," Hannigan agreed lightly. "Just one more little thing."

Trowa winced as the morph was next to him again, the creature's abnormally long arms wrapped around Quatre's shoulders.

"I don't want you to feel guilty, pretty boy, for bringing it all on your friend."

Quatre's not my friend, Trowa thought harshly, nothing like that. The misery in the boy's eyes was almost impossible to bear. I don't have to think about it, Trowa reminded himself, I have to think about my mission. But this thought didn't have real strength behind it. All his thoughts were a mess; it might've been because of the sickness... but somehow he couldn't be sure of it. He couldn't be sure of anything.

"In fact, the little whore likes it rough. I know it for sure," Hannigan said. Quatre's face was nearly void of any expression, just his lips trembled. He must've been in pain, Trowa realized, his arm was twisted behind his back at a very wrong angle. "Don't you, Quatre Winner?"

A push made Quatre's arm wrench up a bit more as a short cry got off his lips; Quatre's eyes went unfocused for a moment.

Please say that you do, Trowa thought, and let it be finished. Let them take him away, to the barracks or wherever they were intended to and leave him, Trowa, alone to pursue his own aims. Let him stop seeing all this.

As if it stopped going once he didn't see it. Memories flooded him suddenly, unexplainably - of Quatre's small hand clasping on his as he pulled Trowa up on his feet, his giggling childish voice asking another pointless question, their shared warmth just such a little time ago.

And now the boy was standing in front of him with his eyes nearly black with pain and his lips nearly white - with the morph demanded him to say those words, to humiliate himself even further. 

"What's wrong, Quatre?" the morph repeated. "Tell him how much you like it."

For a moment it seemed Quatre was going to say what Hannigan wanted to hear from him - what Trowa wanted to hear from him. Then he made a sharp intake of breath and kept silent.

"Hannigan," the other morph said in a bored voice. "Let's go. Others are waiting."

"Just a moment. Something's wrong with my slut. He's probably forgotten who he belongs to."

The morph's movements were too fast again; Quatre was pushed away, slumping against the wall. For a moment Trowa felt relief, almost believing that somehow it was all over - but the expression of desperate apprehension in Quatre's eyes said him it was definitely not.

"So, you don't like me," the morph said. "I'm really hurt. But it's okay, I know who'll you like, by all means. Kirov, bring Nero here."

The words didn't have much meaning for Trowa but the expression of wild terror filling Quatre's eyes shocked him. The boy scrambled up on his knees hastily, reaching for the morph; Hannigan stepped away so that just the flap of his uniform brushed against Quatre's fingers.

The boy's voice was so small it had practically no sound at all, the words coming disjointed, desperate.

"Please... please, sir... don't... I'll do whatever you want me to... Please, sir... I like you, I like what you do, I like everything..."

His voice broke; he was shaking so hard he couldn't talk. A feeling of premonition seized Trowa, the knowledge that something that frightened Quatre so much couldn't be good - and somehow, in some way it meant bad for him as well. The other morph stepped in, holding a black morph-dog on the leash.

This one was bigger than the species that guarded the passengers in the hangar, its dark muzzle with small red eyes wrinkled and leathery. The morph's face was blank as he held the creature at his feet.

"Here, here," Hannigan said stepping away and Trowa saw how even residuals of hope were gone from Quatre's gaze, shock making his eyes dulled, unseeing. The boy crouched on the floor, hugging himself, as if the barrier of his thin arms could ever be a protection enough. It seemed he couldn't bear to look at the dog - and yet was bound to look at it, as if hypnotized.

"Perhaps you'll enjoy watching *this*, pretty boy," Hannigan said to Trowa. Kirov unleashed the dog quietly, his face impenetrable.

The creature rushed forward, its strong body pushing Quatre down, its paws on the boy's chest as its muzzle shoved against the boy's face and neck. With sick feeling Trowa recalled his own stand with a morph-dog, the pressure of a heavy body, the seeking snout butting into his chest. Quatre made just one sound, a choked gasp as the dog pushed him - and then went silent. Trowa could see blood leaking on his arms from under the dog's claws.

His pulse was beating so hard it hurt. His habitual mantra - about the mission, about what he had to do - didn't work any more, sounded distant and even meaningless. Hannigan stepped a bit closer.

"Come on, kid. You know what to do. Nero loves you."

The dog backed away slightly, as if waiting for something. Quatre's head rolled, his eyes with nearly translucent eyelids closed tightly. His chest was fluttering as if his breath was troubled. Trowa wondered if he was even conscious; he probably was - just gone too far into shock.

"Move," Hannigan said. "You know what to do. Get on your fours, little bitch. Nero doesn't like to wait."

Understanding hit Trowa at the same moment as the dog growled, plunged forward again, its muzzle against Quatre's midriff, its teeth scraping the boy's side. He saw a trickle of blood - and then it all swirled around him as he threw himself forward, his body impacting against the dog's as he pushed it away from Quatre.

So much for the mission, he thought absently.

The dog must've been confused for a second, letting him push it away - but at the next moment it came round and jumped. Trowa didn't resist its weight, rolled on the floor. Nero was over him, pinning him down, the dog's huge head with bared teeth bent down.

"Take him, Nero," Hannigan said. "He's all yours."

The dog obeyed immediately but even as the words sounded, Trowa threw his hands forward, catching the heavy muzzle, pushing it away from his face. The dog struggled against his grip, growling low, pressing down. He knew he would die if his hands wavered. Most possibly he would die in any case. He kept holding, not knowing how long he would be able to keep the muzzle away from his throat - seconds, half a minute? Like through a thick cloth, Kirov's voice reached him:

"Should I call it off?"

"Don't," Hannigan said lightly. "I want to see it."

His fingers were too weak; the muscles in his arms vibrated and with every moment Trowa knew he had less chances for the one move he needed. A move he'd known just theoretically, he hadn't killed a living creature before, even if he knew how. Spittle fell on his face from Nero's muzzle, the dog's tiny eyes glared in his face unceasingly.

It was a matter of speed - and how could he hope to be faster than a morph creation? But he did do it; loosened the grip momentarily, recapturing the huge head again before the teeth locked on his throat, twisting abruptly. His wrists screamed with pain and for a split second he thought nothing happened. Then a soft cracking sound told him the dog's neck was broken.

Nero's paws still continued scrubbing on his chest, tearing his jacket and his skin - but the creature was already really dead, blood-thirst and hatred draining from its dulling eyes. With the last effort Trowa wrenched from under the dog before it slumped with all its weight on him.

The room swayed and danced in front of his eyes, the light in it not yellow any more but red and black. He was vaguely aware of the presence of two morphs there, heard Kirov's lost voice repeating:

"He's killed it. He's killed it."

Trowa made an unsure step and slid down on his knees next to Quatre. His own voice sounded strange for him, his hands felt alien as he touched the boy, asked:

"Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

He felt Quatre move - and a moment later the boy was over him, clinging to him, pasting himself over him, his thin cold arms wrapped around Trowa's neck, the grip almost painful as the boy's skinny body pressed against his, shivering.

"T... trowa..." the word came out stumbling but the hands touching his face, petting it, like fluttering wings, seemed to know what they did. Trowa thought about breaking free, about this closeness being not right, not conforming to the rules - but couldn't find enough self-control to separate himself from Quatre's embrace. "It could kill you," Quatre whispered, his cheek pressed to Trowa's shoulder. "It could kill you!"

"Well, now something else will kill him," Hannigan said philosophically. Trowa looked up at the morph and saw the charge gun directed at him. Now he did push Quatre away, with a reasonable thought that it didn't do for both of them to get a hit - but this thought what the last thing he had time for before pain seized him in white flame.

To be continued

**__**

Well, that's kind of dark, I think. So, let it be. The next part (which is almost ready, by the way) is less claustrophobic, I guess. Please let me know if you want me to continue! I appreciate so much all the reviews on ff.net. Thank you, people. Please keep C&C, okay? I need to know someone wants me to go on with it :-)


	5. Part 5

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 5

"I knew you'd give me a reason if I tried hard. But that was almost too good."

Hannigan's voice reached him through the darkness, and Trowa struggled unconsciously, before having time to regain self-control. As it turned out, his struggles were futile, his hands chained above his head. The rough edges of the cuffs were cutting into his wrists and he tried to ease the pressure but his feet barely touched the floor. Yet this pain was good for him, making him lucid again.

"Now even Merquise won't say you shouldn't be punished."

Hannigan stood so close that for a few moments Trowa couldn't see anything but the morph's narrow silhouette, the pale deformed face frozen in a smile. The morph's hand whipped forward, captured his face and tilted his chin up so forcefully Trowa started losing his feet again. Sickness came back, at the thought of the colorless lips closing to his. He bit his tongue so hard it started bleeding. There was nothing he could do - he'd made his choice when he'd fought the dog away from Quatre. At that moment he'd given the power over his body and his life to the morph.

Quatre... Worry, unexpectedly sharp, pierced him. He didn't know why he worried. It was illogical. The little prostitute shouldn't have been his concern, meant nothing for the mission and the Order. Why then did he, Trowa, ruin everything for the boy's sake?

He thrashed, trying to get free from Hannigan's grip. For the first time he realized they were not in the cell any more but in some room, an interrogation room, apparently - looking nearly identical to the one where Trowa had spent last night.

Quatre was there, too - sitting on the floor with his knees up against his chest. His wrists were chained to the wall high above his head and there were small trickles of blood running down his arms. His enormous tragic eyes, so dark on the fair face, met Trowa's gaze with silent despair. Trowa looked away in distress; his intervention hadn't obviously changed anything, had spared Quatre nothing.

"What shall I do with you?" Hannigan asked conversationally as his hands roamed over Trowa's chest, under the jacket. "Punish you first and fuck you later? Or the other way round? I think I'll like my cock in that pretty mouth of yours. I wonder how you'll enjoy the taste of my come. It starts burning after a little while unless I let you wash it out - here, the little flower knows it well."

Trowa stuck his fingernails in the hard metal of the cuffs and felt the tips of his fingers bleed. Hannigan hit him, the punch in his abdomen so hard that Trowa had to bite the inside of his lip through not to make a sound.

"I think punishment will go first," the morph said. "I'd like you all soft and weeping after I finish."

I won't weep, you fool, Trowa thought. The sight of an electrified whip in the morph's hand made him sick with apprehension. He suppressed an involuntary shudder. There was constant metallic taste in his mouth from the blood he had to swallow. Quatre's voice reached him through the pounding in his head.

"Please, sir... please don't..."

"Shut up, bitch," Hannigan said lightly. "It's all your fault, remember that as you watch how I beat him. And I'll add to his punishment for every word you utter now."

Divide and conquer; an old tactics. Despite himself, Trowa felt the corner of his mouth curve in a smile. He never finished the thinking - the pain that wrapped him made him choke, turning his thoughts incoherent, disjointed.

He hadn't realized it would be so bad; he'd never been whipped before - Misques didn't believe in corporal punishments - rather applied boycotts, isolation, public condemnation or fasting. The feeling of the electrified lash clinging to his body was unspeakable. There was no trace left but he kept feeling it, across his chest and upper belly, even as the next blow came.

I won't weep, he thought again - but he did cry out, on the fifth blow, hated himself for this strangled sound that, no doubt, pleased the morph. Blood from his bitten lips got in his throat and he coughed. Fire-like pain encircled his body, tore into his mind. He clung to the only thought he had left - that no matter what, the morph wouldn't see his tears.

He didn't close his eyes but darkness surrounded him, turning Hannigan's figure into a shadow and the lashing whip into an arc of brightness.

The flash was stopped suddenly and no other blow came. Trowa struggled with his failing sight, shook his head furiously, trying to see clearly. Sickness became nearly overwhelming but at least he knew what he saw now - another morph next to Hannigan, a hand in white glove gripping on the Hannigan's wrist.

"It's enough," Zechs said.

For a moment, Trowa felt overpowering joy at seeing him - and cringed in shame at the next moment. How weak he became, how disgraceful if he started seeing the morph as his rescuer, started feeling gratitude to him for stopping the pain.

"He killed Nero," Hannigan said, jerking his wrist out of Zechs' grip.

"I know, I know." The helmeted man's voice was light, derisive. "You provoked him, didn't you? Kirov told me all about it."

"Kirov should mind his own business," Hannigan muttered.

"Oh?" Trowa saw how Zechs' mouth rounded in a feigned surprise. "I thought that, as the head of the block, I have the right to be informed about everything that happens. You don't think so, Hannigan?"

For a little while the morph didn't answer, his lips compressed in a thin line - and then he stepped away, shrugging.

"Yes, sir."

"That's better." In a fluid movement Zechs came up to Trowa, his hands flying up to touch Trowa's face briefly, brush the strands of hair away. Trowa wanted to avoid the touch but had too little control over his body to do that. Zechs still must've noticed his feeble struggles. "It's okay, my beautiful one," he said softly. "It'll stop hurting now."

The lock opened, releasing his cuffed hands, and Trowa slid down - and there were Zechs' arms, solid and strong, supporting him.

"Don't fear to fall," the morph's voice whispered against his ear, a tress of Zechs' hair ticklish. "'Cause I like catching you. I'm taking him away," he added in a different, business-like voice to Hannigan.

"Yes, sir. As you wish, sir." But as they were at the door, Trowa heard the other morph mutter in sotto voce hatefully. "Damn freak."

His consciousness was wavering as Zechs walked him along the corridor. He'd like to get free from the morph's grip but wasn't sure he could stand by himself. He didn't know if it was the aftereffects of whipping or if his state worsened again because of the vaccine - but he seemed to be on the verge of blacking out every moment. 

"Here." Zechs' voice reached him through half-oblivion. "My office."

Next thing Trowa knew was that he sat in an armchair, deep and comfortable, and Zechs was leaning towards him. His white hair shimmered and his polished helmet shimmered as well and for some reason it was painful on Trowa's eyes, so, he squinted.

"Is something wrong?" Zechs asked, a strange note of worry in his voice. "Don't pass out on me any more... my beautiful criminal."

His hand was on Trowa's face again, cupping his cheek - and Trowa moved away, deeper into the armchair. His hands were chained in front of him, he noticed - in fact, stayed chained from the time he'd been hanging on his wrists. It wouldn't hinder him to push Zechs away, though.

"You're stubborn as always." Zechs left him, straightened, crossing his arms on his chest. "One might think you preferred Hannigan's company to mine. Do you feel so disgusted with me? Is it because I'm a morph?"

Of course, it was; there was no other race that liked morphs, that would willingly contact with them. And yet, as Trowa thought about it, it was not just that - the fear he felt about Zechs, the panic that seized him at the man's every touch... Trowa couldn't explain it - or didn't want to try to explain, so, he just said:

"Yes."

It seemed to him there was something bitter in the curve of Zechs' mouth as he stood looking down at Trowa thoughtfully.

"You know the history of morphs, don't you?" he said all of a sudden.

Surely Trowa studied it; he had an unpleasant feeling in his stomach as the idea what Zechs was talking about came to him.

"I do."

"And what is it you know?" The voice was taunting and yet somehow strained. Even when Zechs didn't touch him, the morph's presence was still overwhelming, affecting Trowa in some way. He muttered without looking at Zechs.

"Morphs are mutated humans."

"Right," Zechs said lightly. "Colonists sent away to the planet where it was impossible to survive. But it turned out human genes had a lot of secrets. Who could guess that the children born there would be anthropomorphs, perfectly adapted to the new conditions - and stronger, faster, more flexible than their ancestors? Who could guess that the side effect of the mutation would be enhanced intellect?"

"You got back to those who wronged us, didn't you?" Trowa said quietly. "More than justly. All those planets where humans die of diseases and radiation... and don't mutate, for some reason..."

"Yeah, right," Zechs interrupted him as if it was didn't interest him, as if it was not what he wanted to hear. Trowa looked at the flood of the white hair as the morph turned away from him. His voice sounded hoarse as he talked. "But did you ever wonder what happened if anthropomorphs mutated as well? If, for some reason, a child was born in different conditions, in the conditions close to original ones of the Earth? Backward mutation, so to say? Looking too human for his own good? What about such a creature?

"It depends on what his parents are, doesn't it?" Zechs continued in a light, almost casual voice - but he never turned back, never looked at Trowa. "For example, they might occupy such high positions that no one would dare to say it in their face that their child was an abnormality, a deviant. No one would dare to put any obstacles on his way; he would get everything - a rank, a career, a post - just as far away from the home planet as possible. 'Please, please, go and spare us from the shame of seeing your face.'

"It's funny but some really think it can be contagious." There was joyless laughter in the morph's voice. "Can rub off or something like that. It's convenient sometimes, however, you know - when no one wants to cross your way."

Zechs turned abruptly, his eyes flashing with dark, bright blue in the slits of the helmet. Trowa didn't have time to say anything - and, in fact, he had nothing to say as Zechs moved to him swiftly, his hand on Trowa's throat, hard, not really suffocating but not letting go as well.

"By the way, Kirov told me you wanted to see me. What was it about?"

Trowa shivered. What was it about? It seemed such a long time ago - all his reasoning of that period so distant that he barely could recall what he had been intended to do, after all. 

'To have sex with you' was an honest answer; 'and then to escape' was even more honest. But it wouldn't have worked, Trowa realized suddenly; even if he'd managed to get it on with Zechs. The morph would never let him go.

"About nothing," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Liar." Zechs' slap wasn't of real force, just stinging a little. "Liar and coward."

His hand in Trowa's hair gripped hard, forcing his head back. He leaned closer, so close that Trowa felt smooth surface of the helmet against his face. And at the next moment Zechs' lips were on his, Zechs' tongue in his mouth.

Zechs' lips felt soft and warm, his tongue wet and obtrusive, wandering in Trowa's mouth. Trowa didn't feel any taste, his nasopharynx was swollen and insensitive; there was just the feeling of something alien in his mouth. Neither pleasant nor repulsive... But the helmet pressed against his face inconveniently, painfully - and it returned him to reality. He hit with his cuffed hands into Zechs' chest and kicked with both his feet - and the morph flopped on the floor, seeming slightly disoriented. Trowa got on his feet, staring down at the man.

There was no way to escape, so, he just waited as Zechs wiped his mouth on the back of his palm and rose.

"I guess I'm in for another meeting with Hannigan or Ivers," Trowa said levelly.

Zechs' movements were slightly stiff - Trowa must've hurt him, after all. A blow in his solar plexus made him double, hunch over Zechs' arm. Zechs supported him and lowered him on his knees almost carefully as Trowa gasped, trying to catch a breath. But his grip on Trowa's shoulders was iron-hard, pushing Trowa on his fours.

Against his side, Trowa felt Zechs' groin pressed to him and knew that the morph had an erection. 

"I can take you right now," Zechs said in a sing-sang voice. "How will you like it? It'll be your first time, right? Face down, seeing nothing but the carpet, feeling nothing but pain. You'll never be as before after that, you'll always be dirty. Even if you ever manage to get out of here, you'll be spoiled. Your Order won't want you any more - you, a whore, a failure... No one would want you any more. No one... Even I."

Zechs' voice broke, and suddenly, in a flash of understanding that pierced through the cloudiness of Trowa's mind, Trowa knew that Zechs' threats and insults were really not directed against him - but in some weird way mirrored the morph's own pain and fears.

Deep down in his heart, a feeling akin to pity moved in him - but at the next moment Zechs pressed his head to the floor roughly and all Trowa could think about was struggling uncontrollably, just to delay the inevitable a little more.

The floor shook under him suddenly, an echo of a distant explosion seeming at first just like beating of blood against his eardrums. But it must've been real because Zechs' hand let him go abruptly. Trowa backed away from the morph, looked up. Zechs got on his feet smoothly, his small mouth compressed. Sounds of alarm first seemed to be far away and then grew louder, flooded the room. Trowa saw the morph wince.

For him, the noise was almost unbearable. His aching head and raw nerves shot through with pain. Involuntarily, he held his head, covering his ears - but it did nothing to make the sounds go away. He noticed Zechs' lips move and rather guessed than heard what the morph said:

"Stay here. I'll go check what it is."

The door shut behind the man, and then Trowa moved. He felt dizzy and weak, sore all over - but he also knew that if he didn't move now, he'd probably lose his only chance. 

He looked around the room, searching for weapon - and above Zechs' table saw two thin ancient rapiers, crossed under the glass. He hit against the glass with his cuffs, turning away from the splinters. His hand smeared blood on a sharp piece of glass as he reached for a rapier - but finally he had it. Its point was probably blunted but still it was a kind of weapon. Trowa walked to the entrance, intended to wait for Zechs to return to attack him when another explosion shook the ground under his feet. He fell forward, onto the door - and as the door slid away from under him, he found himself in the corridor.

Next to him, other doors opened smoothly as the sounds of alarm became frenzied.

He saw morph soldiers, running, and saw other species as well. He pressed to the wall but no one seemed to notice him or pay enough attention. With an effort, Trowa resurrected the plan of the prison in his mind - as much of it as he knew. If he was going to get to the shuttle, he had to go downstairs.

If? What else was he going to do? This was his chance, no doubt his only one. He saw a few men in ragged clothes - probably prisoners as well - moving in that direction. One of the morphs stopped to shoot at them; two men fell, two more managed to escape. And at the next moment the morph fell dead as well, attacked by some species, unknown to Trowa, from behind.

It looked like an illustration to Struggle for Existence, Trowa thought wryly. Or it looked like hell. He leaned against the wall and supported himself with the rapier stuck against the floor. He knew what he had to do - his mind gave him very definite orders. To get downstairs and fight his way to a shuttle, flee from there. But when he moved, he walked not down but forward, against the flow of people.

He had barely registered the way when Zechs had dragged him from the interrogation room to his office - but something had to stay in his head. Maybe, it's all in vain, he thought helplessly; maybe, he's not even there any more. Taken back to the cell... and then Trowa would never find him. Or dead.

The door to the room was opened, as all others - and Quatre was there - and no one else.

"Trowa!" There was incredulity, joy and distress mixed in the boy's voice. Trowa wanted to say something but staying upright demanded so much strength he had to clench his teeth - so, he just shrugged weakly.

The boy's hands were cuffed - just like Trowa's had been when Hannigan had whipped him, and Trowa thought scathingly that the morph probably just replaced the toy with another one when Zechs had taken him away. What upset him most was blood that leaked from Quatre's mouth as the boy talked. His breath sounded so painful he likely had a few ribs broken. Focused on the immediate task, Trowa found the control device, pushed the button opening the lock holding the boy's hands. Quatre slipped on the floor bonelessly.

"Come on..." Trowa reached his hands to help him get up; the rapier was just a hindrance so, he let it go. "Get up. We need to get out of here."

He felt Quatre hang onto him for a moment and then the boy fell again. There was a strange feeble smile on Quatre's face.

"I don't think... I can walk."

"Oh. Okay."

Trowa turned with his back to him, got down on one knee.

"Hold on then. I'll carry you."

He was not sure he could but there was no fuckin' way he was leaving the boy here; not after all the way he'd done for it.

"Just look at this. How touching!"

Trowa's long bangs obscured half of the view from him - and for a moment he could almost make himself believe it was just an illusion, his fear materialized. He heard Quatre's short gasp; of course, the morph was real. For some reason Hannigan had returned.

"You're just a stupid boy," the morph said. "And I don't have time to play with you. I think I'll do it quickly now."

The gun in his hand was not a charge gun but a real one, pointing down at Trowa. For some reason Trowa couldn't look higher than it was, couldn't look at the morph's face - saw just the black round muzzle in Hannigan's hand. 

Shouldn't have left the rapier, he thought absently; although what difference it would make - apart from dying with a weapon in his hands.

A sudden burst of fire made him look up; and he'd thought that when you were shot, you didn't hear the sound. But he wasn't shot; it was Hannigan whose chest suddenly tore with bluish flowers of open wounds. The morph's purple blood splashed on Trowa's face as he looked at the swaying creature in disbelief. It seemed Hannigan still tried to pull the trigger, with his last movement - but already couldn't do it. He felt forward, down at Trowa's feet.

And then, behind the morph, Trowa saw the one who'd been shooting - a smiling man with an automatic gun in his hands. The man was dressed in camouflage and his face framed with reddish-brown hair looked vaguely familiar. Trowa just felt too messed up to recognize him.

"I think it was timely, ne, kid?" the man said, his smile getting even brighter for a moment.

"Thank... thank you..."

"Never mind." He stepped over the morph's long legs and nodded to Trowa. "Get out of here while it's possible."

At the next moment he was gone - and shots were heard farther down the corridor. Trowa turned to Quatre and repeated:

"Hold on. Let's go."

The boy looked guiltily at him and Trowa shook his head impatiently. Quatre's bony arms hooked around his neck, and he got up.

With how skinny Quatre was, he just couldn't weigh much - and at any other moment Trowa would carry him effortlessly. Now he could carry him, too - there was just no other way about it.

First few corridors were empty, just dead bodies here and there - but as Trowa reached downstairs, it was inferno. The crowd was so dense, all kinds of species moving towards the shuttles, that the mass seemed solid, with a few taller figures of morphs caught in its middle. The vibration from leaving shuttles was continuous - and yet the crowd didn't grow thinner.

He knew there was no way everyone could take place in a shuttle - all those prisoners desperate to leave. He entered into the crowd, got in the flow and even managed to advance a little. His cuffed hands didn't let him shield from the pushes - and he heard a small painful cry Quatre made as someone must've shoved against his broken ribs. Another push, more like blow, made him stumble - and suddenly a hard hand caught him, pulled away. Almost without surprise Trowa looked at Zechs' helmet-covered face.

"I knew I'd find you," the morph breathed out.

The words were so senseless that Trowa thought he must've heard wrong. In this mess, with everything falling apart - Zechs wanted to say he was looking for him? Three of them were pressed to the wall by running people; Trowa let Quatre slide off his back and swayed with sudden relief. His knees were so weak he didn't know how he could stand.

"Don't go there," Zechs said in a low voice.

You can't stop me, Trowa wanted to say. The power of the morphs over the prison was down - ruined probably by that man in fatigues who'd shot Hannigan just a little while ago. He saw Zechs' very long fingers reach to his face. The morph's gloves were torn and soaked in dark fluid, so mixed that Trowa couldn't say whether it was human or morphs' blood.

"Don't go," Zechs repeated.

The next explosion was very close, the blinding fireball blossoming down the corridor, right in the middle of the crowd. It felt like the wall Trowa leaned against started crumbling. But, maybe, it was just his body that was giving up.

He was sliding down and couldn't stop it - and saw Zechs' narrowed eyes, looking at him attentively. He heard Quatre's desperate voice, screaming something next to him. Zechs put his hand in his pocket - and suddenly Trowa knew what he'd see next. A flash of the blade in the morph's hand.

"Please... Please here! Help him!" Quatre cried out, and Trowa wondered absently who the boy could ask for help. And at the next moment more people in fatigues were in his range of vision - the familiar one among them and for some reason Trowa thought he must've seen this beautiful radiant face on TV before - or over the numbers stating an award for his capture.

He didn't know if Zechs was shot or hit but the morph slumped on the floor suddenly. There was no knife in his slack hand, just a card for unlocking the cuffs.

"Help him! You won't leave him - you saved his life once, sir," Quatre's lilting voice was so insistent - Trowa hadn't known it could sound like this. 

"Captain?" someone asked behind the man. The man walked up to them and bent towards Trowa.

"Okay," he said briskly, his eyes darkened blue on the white face. "We need witnesses all the same."

He took the gun in his left hand and his right arm wrapped around Trowa's ribcage, pulling him up. Trowa wanted to mind being dragged like a kitten or a little child but the man didn't seem to notice.

"Quatre..." he looked back for the boy and saw in relief that another man helped him up.

"What about the morph?" The smallest one of the insurrectionists, a thin black-haired boy, probably no older than Trowa himself, spoke with almost unmoving lips, his thin black eyebrows drawn together.

"What about him?" the man turned back slightly.

"He's not dead."

"Then finish him off, Wufei."

"Look at his rank, I think we might use him."

"All right," the man shrugged. "Then take him as well."

Trowa saw how Zechs was jerked up on his feet, his arms twisted behind his back cruelly. The morph's head drooped, he probably was not quite conscious, and his long hair flooded down against his chest like threads of silver.

"To the flyers," someone said.

To be continued

**__**

Well... So, do you want to know what awaits for Zechs in captivity? Do you want to know if Trowa will ever be able to fulfil his mission? If Trowa and Quatre are going to be together? What will happen with Treize and Wufei? Are there anywhere Heero and Duo to be met? You have a chance to know all that if you keep writing those beautiful reviews on ff.net - the reviews that make me completely happy. Thank you, people! Please keep going.


	6. Part 6

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 6

The room was a tangle of thin nets hanging from the ceiling, separating the area in tiny cells. It apparently was done to prevent sand from littering everything but it didn't work so well and the floor was layered with tiny ribbed dunes of golden gravel while dust clung to face and hands unbearably.

The lights, caught in the web of gauze, seemed reddish and dull and the figures of the doctors looked like vague white shadows, their voices distant humming. They were taking care of wounded; there were wounded among the men in fatigues; maybe, there were dead as well.

"Where are we?" Trowa's voice was hoarse, barely audible and his eyebrows drew together in pain as he talked. 

"At the infirmary," I said. "On some planet. I don't know which one."

I'd barely had a glance at it, at the vast spaces of yellow sand under orange sky as we'd got out of the flyers. The men left us here, in a small space with two beds, separated with flimsy screens from the rest of the room. They also had taken the cuffs off of Trowa and me - which was good.

"Damn." Trowa's voice wavered.

His bloodless face with sunken closed eyes shadowed, teeth clenched hard. It was hot in the room, even stifling with all those nets catching the air, but he didn't stop shivering, even under the blanket, hugging himself, his narrow hands clasped on the dark-red material of his torn mucky jacket. I pulled a blanket from the other bed, piled it over him. His hair was hiding half of his face; I smoothed it away, probing his forehead. Well, it was nothing I wouldn't know without it: he was burning again. His eyelashes trembled as he tried to open his eyes, then shook his head.

"Go away. You're heavy."

I took my hand away quickly, still feeling the heat of his skin against my fingers.

"Trowa," I whispered. "I'll go call for someone. You're really sick."

"No!" For once there was strength in his voice, intensity making it louder. "Don't call for anyone. You're such a... pest."

I took a deeper breath, feeling how sharp hot pain pierced my side. The never-leaving tang of blood in my mouth became stronger; I fought pain and sickness and fear until I could be sure my voice would sound reasonably steady.

"Trowa... I'm sorry."

"What for?" His voice was inanimate again, the words slurred. His eyelashes never rose, as if too heavy for that. I leaned against the bed rails, holding my side, trying to take little small breaths to lull the pain away.

"If you didn't carry me, you wouldn't get so sick."

His eyebrows arched as if in misery.

"Baka."

"If you didn't come for me, you would be able to get away on a shuttle."

I knew that; I wasn't a fool, no matter what he said. If he hadn't returned for me, I would've likely been dead now. Or with Hannigan. A wave of panic flooded me at the thought of the morph's deadly white face, colorless lips and enormously long fingers, at the memory of a too loud sound of my ribs cracking under his fist.

__

"That's good, little flower. I like it so much when your eyes go all big and black."

No, it was just a memory, nothing more; Hannigan was dead, I reminded myself - he couldn't touch me any more.

"I did what I wanted to do," Trowa whispered; there was a weird expression on his face - so much determination... as if he wanted to convince himself in what he was saying. "It was my decision. You have nothing to do with it."

I chuckled quietly; yeah, maybe, I had nothing to do with it. He'd just saved my life.

I didn't say anything but he grew restless suddenly, tossed as if trying to escape something - a grip, a presence.

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it. Shut up!"

He was delirious again and I didn't know which way I preferred him. He could be so snappish when lucid - silent or antagonistic - but his tormenting deliriums when he argued with someone who wasn't here were even worse. I sat quietly in the bottom part of his bed, waiting for him to calm down. 

"He said I would die there... but I didn't... I already got out... I'll leave here as well... I'll do what I have to, I didn't forget..."

I felt a little pang of misery at his anxiety, at his determination. He'd talked like this in prison, as well - about something he had to do, no matter what. Oh, surely he'd do it - I already knew Trowa well enough to believe that nothing could stop him once he decided. He'd leave here... and I wouldn't see him ever again.

"At first you have to get well," I said in a reasonable voice.

He must've heard it. His mouth curved in a wry smile as he shook his head.

"Silly. I can't get well."

There was something in his words... something that made me believe him - and made my heart sink hopelessly.

"You'll die? You can't die, can you?"

He'd talked about having more two weeks or something like that, before - and I clung to this thought desperately. I saw his bluish eyelids move; a flash of his eyes was dimmed green.

"Why... why do you care?"

Why did *you* care, I thought; why did you care what would happen to me? I shifted, pulling my knees up to my chest. It made breathing more difficult but in a way I felt less vulnerable like that, as if my own body could give me some protection. It was an illusion, of course; if anything, my body had turned or was used against me countless times

Trowa's pale face, eyes closed again, was blank and tired, as if he was sleeping or unconscious. I listened to his breath, steady and quiet, feeling how this sound calmed me down somehow.

"Quatre." He shifted restlessly. "Have you gone somewhere?"

Hadn't he told me to go away?

"Nope," I said. "I'm here."

"Good." His frown smoothed a little. "Although I don't care, of course... you can go if you want."

"I don't want," I said.

"Quatre..." There was some strange, fluttering sound in his voice - and it let me know he didn't know what he was saying again, was delirious once more. "Pretty one. Little... little prince."

Little prince; that's how Hannigan called me, keen on various endearments that he inevitably made sound as insults. I closed my eyes, fighting the memories, intent not to let them crowd on me. It was Trowa who said it - Trowa who'd saved me from what I didn't want to recall; from Trowa these words sounded different, even if I couldn't understand why he wanted to say them.

"You make me feel wrong," he whispered, his fluctuating voice dream-like, distant. "Make me want to touch you... you to touch me... It's not right... I don't want it... I know what's right," all of a sudden his voice became strong, hard, almost unwavering. "I won't do any mistakes any more, Raymond."

I bit my lip, looking at him in misery. I wished so much I could reach to him, to pull him out of the world of hallucinations where he was. But I knew how he reacted when I touched him, so, I stayed where I was. There were blackish circles swaying in front of my eyes at the lack of oxygen since I couldn't take a normal breath. My side under my hands seemed throbbing with hot pain at every heartbeat. I held tighter, hoping for it to stop.

"So, let me see what you have there, young man."

The voice sounded behind me - and the touch came from there, too - a grip of cold metal on my elbow, very hard. I panicked even before turning back, thrashed, rolled down from the bed on the floor, wrenching out of the hold and looked up. A sound that escaped me was a strangled shriek.

"Hey, hey," the man said hastily, raising both his hands, of flesh and of metal. "I just wanted to see..."

"What happened?" Trowa was sitting on the bed, his eyes opened but glazed, unseeing. "Don't you touch him."

"...wanted to see if I can do something about your ribs."

The man had a white coat on; his grey hair was tossed away from a wrinkled face with such a strange kind of glasses I'd never seen before. He was a cripple - one of his hands was an elaborated device made of shiny metal, its fingers moving with almost morph-like speed. It must've been what had scared me so much. I sighed, feeling chagrined and unhappy with my own stupidity.

"You look like you can use a doctor, kid," the man said and then looked at Trowa. "And you too. Wataru!"

A man appeared, pushed the net away - a much younger one, blond and in gold-rimmed glasses - and stood silently looking at the other doctor.

"See to this one," the grey-haired man pointed at Trowa. "And I'll take care of the other."

He reached his hand to me and, as I took it, pulled me up to my feet.

The floor seemed a bit shaky and the man's face was suddenly too close, breaking in a smile as I gripped on his hand harder.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Doctor J. But you can call me simply 'sir'. And what's your name?"

"Quatre," I said.

On the next bed, Wataru was making a quick examination of Trowa.

"You're so messed up, both of you, kids," Doctor J said disapprovingly, pushing me to sit down. "Well, we'll see what can be done about it."

I saw Trowa resist weakly as Wataru pulled his blankets down, opened his jacket. The man turned to Doctor J suddenly, his eyes widened behind the glasses.

"I'm not sure, doctor, but it certainly looks like... Well, you'd better take a look."

I watched them cautiously as they bent over Trowa, the younger man's voice sounding very tight.

"Fever... these red lines on his ribcage, see there? It certainly looks like seizure-flu. We might be on the verge of an epidemic here."

I flew from the bed, stumbled forward, as if I could shield Trowa from them. Wataru's face looked sick with fear, Doctor J's face frowned and tense.

"He's not going to cause any epidemic!" For some reason I didn't find anything better to prove it than taking Trowa's hand in mine. "He's not contagious at all. I was in the same cell with him - we slept under the same blanket - and I got nothing from him. I don't know what he has - but it's something different," I finished.

"How long were you in the same cell?" Doctor J asked.

"Four... five days." I exaggerated; but I had to make them believe it.

"And when did he fall ill?"

"He was like that already when they brought him."

"That you didn't get infected proves nothing," the old man shrugged, his fingers, real and metal, intertwined. "Some people have immunity to it. But if he's ill for so long... Seizure-flu kills overnight, that's I know."

"You don't... need to worry..." Trowa whispered; his head rolled on the pillow. "I won't... infect anyone."

"How can he know it?" Wataru snapped. I looked up at Doctor J pleadingly; of course, I didn't know the man, met him just minutes ago - but somehow it seemed to me he was not so pigheaded as his assistant. And there was no one else all the same.

"I'll make the analyses," the doctor said. A syringe appeared in his hands - and at the next moment Trowa's hand flew up, catching the man's metal wrist.

I watched Trowa push himself up into a sitting position forcefully, his eyes open, unblinking, with just thin lines of green around dilated pupils.

"The virus is not an active one. It's a vaccine."

"There's no vaccine from seizure-flu," Doctor J said mildly.

"There is," Trowa fell back again. His arms were wrapped around himself tightly and his face had a stubborn, sealed expression that I recognized so well. "I won't say anything else. I want to talk to the Captain."

"If he's contagious, it's a danger," Wataru said firmly. I saw Doctor J shrug thoughtfully.

"Treize brought him here. Go inform him about the situation. If he decides to talk to the kid, it'll be his choice."

I saw Wataru walk away and sighed out in relief a little.

"Here, I'll give you an anti-fever injection." There was no antipathy in Doctor J's voice as he talked to Trowa. "There's no reason for you to burn your brain out."

The silly one argued, of course - just as I knew he would:

"No... it can harm the vaccine..."

I could bet Doctor J was about to say something really scathing when the netting was pushed away again and, in front of Wataru, there was that very man who'd killed Hannigan and saved us, ordering to take us away.

* * *

"It's the infirmary, for Christ's sake," Doctor J kept complaining in a very quiet voice, drawing the nets behind us. "I have the right to be wherever I want to."

It was Trowa's wish - and for some reason the Captain went along with it - to talk tete-a-tete. Wataru interfered, of course, said that it was a risk, it could be some trap, an attempt of assassination or something - and the man gave him a brief, not unkind, rather indifferent look.

"There's always a risk. So, J? Will you kindly leave us alone?"

"All right, all right," the doctor muttered. "I really have things to do. Like putting some bandage on this kid's ribs."

I didn't want to walk away from Trowa - but surely there was no other way; Trowa wanted me to be gone with all others as he talked to the man with reddish-brown hair and calm blue eyes.

"Here." Doctor J stopped. "We won't hinder them here. Sit down, kid."

He talked barely audibly - and a moment later I understood why. Even though the Captain's silhouette looked dim, shadow-like now as he stood in front of Trowa's bed, his voice was clear and distinct, catching on us through the nets.

"So, now when we're alone - what did you want to talk to me about?"

I looked up at the doctor in surprise; his face was deadpan as he busied himself with some medical paraphernalia.

"You're Treize Khushrenada, right?" Trowa's voice was fainter but still distinct enough; behind it, I could feel the effort he was giving for it to sound steady. "I... recognized you."

"I am." The man's silhouette suddenly broke as he sat down on Trowa's bed. His voice was a bit softer now. "And you?"

"Trowa Barton. I belong to Misque Order. We got a vaccine from Oatta, for seizure-flu. I need to deliver it to the Order as soon as possible."

Even though Doctor J must've listened as attentively as I did, his hands never stopped moving, pulling my top up, probing my ribs. I shivered slightly at the difference of sensations from his warm human hand and cold metal one - but curiously, his touches didn't make me panic. There was something soft and yet business-like in them.

"One rib is broken, two fractured," he informed me. "I'll put fixating paste on them, so, it won't prevent you to take a shower."

"A vaccine for seizure-flu?" Treize repeated quietly. "I know they would be desperate for it in the Northern Region."

"The Order will take care of it," Trowa said unfalteringly. "I just need to take it there sooner. Immediately if possible. I got arrested by the morphs, it was a delay. And too many people died..." he added softly.

"I see." Treize's voice was thoughtful, very serious. "But I don't know what can be done about it. The planet is surrounded at the moment, neither flyer nor shuttle will be able to leave it. With time, we'll find corridors for travelling safely - but it'll take a while."

"Safety is not a priority," Trowa said in the expressionless, almost robot-like voice that he sometimes had as he talked about his duty. "I can take a risk."

"It won't be a risk. It will be suicide. As far as I understand, the vaccine will be lost if you die."

There was a pause when I seemed to hear how the nets were waving in the barest draft of the air. Then Trowa said quietly:

"I don't have much time, sir. The vaccine cannot be exposed, it's stored only inside a body. An adult body won't do, it'll kill an adult person. I can carry it for a while."

"How much time do you have?"

"Two weeks. Twelve days while I'll still be functioning." 

I had known it; he was always repeating about this term. And it always seemed like something very long to me - maybe, because I didn't quite believe in what he said, half-considered it another delusion of his. But at this moment I felt something swelling in my throat, choking me. Two weeks... and then he'd die. Two weeks - it was so little, it was practically nothing!

I felt how Doctor J's hands stopped on my ribcage, his fingers touching through the film of fixating paste - and despite myself, I leaned into that touch, as if seeking protection from reality of Trowa's death in such a short time.

I had spent I didn't know how long with death hovering over me, surrounding me, in morphs' prison. But now, when we'd got out of it, when the system hadn't managed to destroy us...

"No, Trowa..." I whispered helplessly.

"A little fanatic, your friend," Doctor J said in sotto voce, taking hold on my hand, dabbing my raw wrist with disinfectant.

I bit my lip with stinging pain, my eyes filling with involuntary tears. I blinked them away angrily; it was not such a bad pain, nothing I couldn't bear.

"I see," Treize repeated. "We'll be checking for corridors and as soon as something is up, you'll get an opportunity to go. You might've heard various things about me but I'll do my best for the vaccine to get to the Northern Region."

"Thank you, sir."

"Two fanatics," Doctor J said, shaking his head. "No wonder they've come to consensus so easily."

"Trowa... Trowa is not a fanatic," I whispered; the doctor's steely glasses turned to me. "He's... he's a hero."

"For me, it's all the same," the man shrugged.

I saw Treize's figure straighten as he moved away from Trowa's bed, pulled the nets. The barriers of half-translucent material became thinner and thinner between us - and suddenly I saw him standing in front of me, his head lowered slightly, his calm eyes narrowed.

"Curiosity killed a cat, J. You should've known it in your age."

"What? I just mind my own business..."

"Yeah, right." There was no real anger in the man's voice. "And if you finished with your business - can I take the kid? I want to talk to him."

I looked up at him at loss. What could it be the Captain himself wanted to talk to me about? Did he want to re-check Trowa's story? I decided at once I'd confirm everything, what I knew and what I didn't.

"I don't know." J put a thin stripe of transparent plaster on my other wrist. "Wait behind the net, I have to check."

I could see it gave him enormous pleasure to say that. Treize walked out.

"Any other injuries you want to tell me about, kid?" J said. I knew by the tone of his voice what he was talking about and flushed, shaking my head. "You sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Treize, he's yours. And, Treize, you gotta find something for the kids to wear. This one can't... totter around here in two scraps of silk for the clothes."

My clothes were more than two scraps but I decided not to argue.

"I gotta..." Treize shrugged. "Okay, I'll see what can be done. Now follow me, will you, kid?"

"Where are you taking him? He has to be in bed."

I looked at Treize. There, in prison, during the attack, his self-confidence, his determination had a wonderful pacifying effect - as if nothing bad could happen when he was around; no bullet or fire could touch him or anyone he took under his protection. And he was beaming then - exhilarated with the battle, violently happy with all the havoc he created around him. Now this joy was gone; there was something quietly subdued in him' not less powerful - but something sad, almost sorrowful.

I got up and walked to him. Doctor J had done something that made me keep on my feet almost steadily, the pain in my ribs turned into dull ache.

"It's right over there," Treize said. "My office."

* * *

This room was much smaller and void of nets completely. A narrow window, reminding me a loophole by its form, was covered with sand at its bottom for a few inches. It must've been night outside, the darkness ink-like, almost solid. I watched Treize walk up to the table and sit down silently. He reached to the screen of a TV transmitter, made the sound louder.

"Although no terrorist group assumed responsibility for this act, the Executive Board announced that they blamed for the attack so-called New Answer Brigade led by Treize Khushrenada, former Captain of United Force. Two years ago, as the truce between United Planets and Marotania was signed, Khushrenada refused to lay down arms..."

A flicker of Treize's wrist switched the channels. I saw the record of the attack starting, flyers approaching the huge glimmering disc of the prison.

"Central Prison, otherwise known as 'Ismail', considered escape-proof, had never been under attack since its foundation twelve years ago. How could it happen that it fell under one blow from a famous terrorist group?"

There was something in Treize's face, something that made me look at him rather than at the screen. I wondered if it was being called a terrorist that made his mouth tremble as if in pain.

"The government of Marotania already demanded apology from the Executive Board, as well as extradition of Khushrenada."

'Marotanians' was morphs' self-denomination, I recalled. No one else called them this way apart from media and politics, and even they not always. 

"The number of casualties among morphs is unknown - but for other species it certainly could count for thousands, when the fugitives, who hijacked the shuttles from the prison's bay, entered the minefield surrounding the prison. This newest addition to the security system was unknown to anyone except prison officials. So, even though Marotanians couldn't prevent their captives from actually leaving the prison, they still could boast that no criminals escaped during this attack."

I looked at the screen blankly. There, rotund shapes of shuttles blasted silently in the darkness of space.

I recalled suddenly the quiet, insistent voice of the helmeted morph who'd stopped Trowa on his way.

__

"Don't go there. Don't."

If he... if we got to a shuttle, we would be dead now. If Treize hadn't taken us along, we would've possibly been dead or in a lock-up now. I looked at Treize in admiration.

He didn't look on the screen; his eyes were cast down at his hands that lay on his lap, intertwined, seemingly placid - if not for the white lines on their knuckles. 

He had a grey strand in his hair, I noticed suddenly - white among reddish tresses. He looked at me, his eyes blazing with such pain that I flinched.

"Sit down." He showed at a chair and I obeyed. A brief, absent smile curved his lips. "So, they want an apology, don't they? They've just murdered several thousands of species, humans among them, in cold blood - and now they want an apology? How many of those 'criminals' were really guilty of something, I wonder - not were used just for demonstrating the power of the new masters of the universe - anthropomorphic monsters? How much time did you spend in the prison?"

The question was unexpected - all before then, during his speech, Treize almost seemed as if he didn't notice me. I swallowed nervously.

"I'm not sure what the date's today."

His intent eyes stopped on me for a few moments. 

"July 12."

"Oh. It's eight months then, I believe."

I hadn't had an idea it was so long; time had started being confused a while ago but I still believed it was less, three or four months, maybe.

"Eight months?" Treize looked at me sharply. "It's supposed to be a transit prison, no one can be held there for more than a month or two."

I didn't know what to say for it but he seemed to grow agitated again - now in a good way, as if my words pleased him. I saw him get up, walk to a cupboard, pour transparent liquid into a glass for himself. Sharp tang of processed spirit caught on me.

His face was thoughtful as he took a sip.

"We need to reveal the truth about this prison, about morphs," he said with quiet intensity. "Whether they want to listen to us or not. We have to throw the truth in their faces as many times as it'll be necessary. Documents, testimonies - everything possible. One day - and I believe this day will come soon - they'll hear us. They will know who their real enemy is.

"Can you tell about your time in prison?" he asked avidly. I looked at him, not sure what to say, rubbing my plaster-covered wrists. What did he want to hear, anyway? "I want you to tell about it, kid. What is your name?"

"Quatre," I said.

"And full name?"

"Quatre Winner." I didn't want to repeat it; sometimes I almost wished I could drop it all together. But Hannigan never let me forget it, his manner of calling me by name and surname similar to other morphs' - but he also knew I hated it, hated to be reminded who I was... and how I failed my family, how I couldn't keep my dignity in the end.

"Well, Quatre," Treize said softly. "Will you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Will you testify? We'll make a record, a videotape, where you'll tell everything. How you were arrested, how much time you spent in prison, how you were treated there..."

I felt the room start swirling in front of my eyes and clasped the seat of the chair. He couldn't mean that, could he? He couldn't want me to tell... I couldn't... I must've misunderstood.

"Quatre." As the haze cleared, I felt strong fingers holding mine - and Treize was near to me, squatting in front of the chair, his hand on mine. 

I had no reason to be afraid of him, he'd saved both Trowa and me - but his closeness, the strength of his hand made me panic. I shrunk back in the chair, shivering.

His eyes were blue, radiant and very serious, compassion in them as warm as the touch of his hand. 

"Don't be afraid, Quatre. I won't hurt you. No one here will hurt you. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

"We need your help. You have to tell... People must know the truth - even if the Executive Board doesn't want to listen to it. Truth is a powerful weapon; I believe in it as much as I believe in my other weaponry. Think about people, in future, whom you can help by exposing the truth."

"I... I..." My thoughts messed up. 

He must've been wrong about me; he probably thought I was a different one, a hero, someone who'd passed through that time in prison with honor and dignity - someone like Trowa. And what could I tell about - apart from my shame and weakness?

"I don't think it can be useful... what I can tell," I whispered. "It was not... like you think."

He kept looking at me - and then something changed in his eyes; as if he understood. I thought he'd leave me now, step away in disgust. But Treize's hold on my hand became just a bit tighter.

"What do you think I think? Why do you think I can't imagine it? You're wrong if you think I want some tale from you. I know the truth... there is no shame in it."

No shame... I suddenly knew that he didn't lie, didn't misunderstand. Of course, he knew - my clothes gave me away all right. And he still asked me to help.

I felt really cold suddenly, even in the stuffy room. How could I say 'no' to him? 

"I'll do it," I said.

"Good." For a few seconds he stayed, smiling, and then got up. "I'll prepare everything for the recording tomorrow morning. There's no reason to delay with it, the statement should be sent as soon as possible."

He walked up to the table now, his fingers ran over the keyboard swiftly. I got up. 

"Thank you," Treize turned to me briefly, with his smile of stunning radiance and infinite sadness. "You can go now. I'll tell someone to find you some clothes."

I nodded and left, pushing the door close behind me.

The infirmary was empty by then, and nearly dark. In the light coming from an adjacent room I walked between the nettings until finding my bed. Trowa in his lay flat under the blankets, his eyes closed. There was an IV needle inserted in his left arm and I thought that Doctor J apparently managed to convince him to take some medicine.

I still shivered minutely with tension as I slunk under the blanket. The bed was soft, warm, surrounding me seemingly from every side. I sighed contentedly - I'd almost forgotten how it was to sleep in bed; so good... So good that I almost could forget about the task waiting for me tomorrow and just sleep.

"Quatre?" Trowa's quiet voice caught on me. I looked out of the blanket cocoon and stared at him. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," I whispered in reply. There was a small frown trembling between Trowa's eyebrows, as if in a worry. "He wanted me... to testify... about the prison."

There was a pause and then another question came.

"Did you agree?"

"Yes," I said again. I watched him cautiously, for a sign of disdain on his face, for surprise as to what I could tell.

"It's brave of you," he said. I wondered if he joked but he didn't look so - and his face smoothened as his breath grew lighter and steadier.

"Good night, Trowa," I said quietly, hugging the pillow, settling more comfortably. Trowa's tranquil face with light and shadows cast on it was the last thing that I saw before falling asleep.

***********************************************************

His fingers flew over the keys without the eyes following them - and his mind participated in what he did just as little. The documents were filed and ready to be sent. In the next coverage they'd say that Treize Khushrenada's group did assume the responsibility for the attack. But how many of them would mention the rest of the evidence he'd send - explain the reason why he did it, was going to keep doing it as long as he was alive?

Audio coverage kept sounding as a constant accompaniment. 

"The Executive Board informs Marotanian government that, while Treize Khushrenada is considered a criminal and will be put on trial once captured, he won't be extradited to any other race."

He smiled mirthlessly at it. What courage! The EB decided to show they could take independent decisions as well, not to be just lapdogs of morphs. For him, it hardly changed anything; he was ready to be arrested one day, understood sanely that it might happen - just as he sanely was going to do everything to possibly avoid it. 

He clicked 'sent' and watched the stream of data being dispatched, fingering a strand of hair. The white strand; he could find it unmistakably, without looking, and he knew exactly when it'd appeared in his hair. On the day when he'd gotten Wufei back.

Again, as always, pain flooded him at the memory; pain, amplified with cold anger, so strong that sometimes it seemed to him his heart was not going to bear it, would give up under the pressure. He tried to fight these feelings - they were not good advisors in what he was doing. But how could he forget...

And even if he tried to forget, there were always things that would remind him. Like that boy he'd finished talking to so recently... what was his name - Quatre... So thin you could count his ribs under this leaving nothing to imagination garment of his... Treize thought he should order to feed him well... to feed both of them kids well. And those huge dark eyes on the childish face - the eyes that seemed to be scared forever, hiding terror in their depth even when the boy smiled. 

He recalled how Quatre backed away from him, as if a touch could hurt him, and felt his hands clench in fists convulsively. What kind of creatures morphs were... But of course he knew what kind: sparing no man or woman or child. How old was Quatre? Fourteen, fifteen? Wufei had been twelve...

Treize's memory prompted him quickly a picture of a skinny exuberant child, fiercely vivacious, guilelessly passionate. They had been doing so many things together, playing games, wrestling, talking of books, of music. _Der Rosenkavalier, _The Knight of the Rose_..._ Wasn't it what Wufei called him?

The glass of wine was a saving anchor from those memories and Treize reached for it hastily, emptying it without feeling the taste. His fingers pressed on the glass too hard - before he noticed it, before the vessel burst in his hand in a waterfall of splinters.

"Whoosh... look what you've done..."

He talked to himself quietly, pulled out small bits of glass from his palm and wrapped his handkerchief around it. No reason to bother J with it... and earn a weird look from the doctor.

Then - four, three years ago - there had been nothing between him and Wufei. they both knew there would be, in some years - it seemed it couldn't be otherwise. But at that time there was nothing - but their joint work, their joint fight - the hatred to morphs they shared... Wufei's parents both dead because of the damn race... Hopes they had. And a kiss, an occasional touch, maddening in its shortness, sparkles of desire between them.

Nothing was as they dreamed. Everything happened sooner, uglier - so awful that Treize couldn't think about it, couldn't - if he still wanted to be functioning tonight.

Just one crime - one crime among the rest of what the morphs did. One... two lives ruined - what was it in comparison with thousands dead in that failed escape from the prison?

What kind of creatures could set that mining field around the prison?

Don't ask...

So many years of fighting - first on behalf of his homeland, as a military - and then as a partisan, maquis. Trying to separate humans and inhuman. Only recently Treize more and more believed that it was not so easy, that the line of justice was jagged and not everyone who had a human face could be called human. Sometimes it seemed to him there were too many of those who'd stepped beyond the line of inhumanity and stayed there. Including himself.

Treize got up on his feet, swaying slightly. The wine, combined with after-battle exhaustion, hit him fast and hard. But there was nothing to be done about it.

He wasn't an alcoholic, he drank not because he couldn't do without it... But because without the softening veil of inebriation, the world just had too sharp angles for him - unbearably sharp. The wine helped him to go on - not hindered him, never affected his duties.

He knew what his duty was now. The morph... They'd make him testify; make him tell all the dirty secrets of his race. No matter what it'd cost.

To be continued

**__**

Thank you to everyone who gives such wonderful feedback to my story: Kasra, ashley, Triton, Skippys Cat, Lady Priscilla, Katleen of the Fire, shampoo, Ravena Kaiou, Kay Willow and others! I appreciate it so much. Please keep stimulating me to continue this story - because I have so many goodies in my mind that I can't bear the idea of stopping writing it because no one wants to read it :-) Hugs!


	7. Part 7

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 7

Despite the late hour, there were people in the corridors, everyone high on adrenaline after the fight. Treize entered the recreation room, the voices from there loud and heated. The air was thick and bluish with cigarette smoke and there were twenty or so people there, half of his team, crowded around the TV transmitter. He knew they would be watching.

They moved when he came in, their eyes intent, and Treize nodded to them briefly.

"They blame us for this thing with the minefield," someone said.

Even though Treize was ready for these words, they still hit hard. He did his best to sound calm, to sound confident - and was satisfied with the result. 

"You know they would. They're desperate to make someone responsible - and we're just too convenient a target."

"And morphs want us to give them back all the hostages," another man said derisively.

"They can't even count their own men, don't know how many we took, if any!"

"The hell we'll going to give the slut back. Only piece by piece, maybe."

Treize listened to them, smiling faintly; it was good they were like this - sure, enthusiastic. They couldn't afford thinking about failures - if they wanted to keep fighting.

It was actually in the quest of Wufei as much as to check on the people's mood Treize had come here - but Wufei was not there, unsurprisingly. Wufei never liked crowds, preferred to be alone- the reason why, even though the boy had everyone's respect, he hardly had any friends.

It'll change, Wufei, Treize promised silently. After everything will be over, I'll take care of that. You'll have friends, you'll have life - everything that a boy of your age should have.

"Sir..." someone hailed him. "Do you think the Board will get in contact with us?"

So far the contacts from the EB were sheer ultimatums... as well the Board's participation in the siege of the planet, together with morphs. Treize smiled, touching the man's shoulder.

"What do you think yourself, Jackson? It's a long way till then - but one day it'll happen."

A few more men entered the room, loud, discussing something excitedly. There was a weird smell clinging to their bodies, the one that Treize refused to admit feeling, even though it made his stomach lurch involuntarily. He saw them notice him and stop, their eyes feverishly bright but their voices dying away.

He moved to the door, caught one of the newcomers by the sleeve, asked in a low voice:

"Have you seen Wufei Chang?"

He wanted the man to say 'no', for some reason - but he knew what the answer would be.

"Yeah." There was a broad, nearly delirious smile on the man's face. "He's with the morph. I tell you, sir, it was a good idea to take him. Let one of those bastards try their own medicine..."

Treize jerked his hand back abruptly, letting the man go. It was what he'd expected, wasn't it? He knew Wufei, after all. But he also hoped Wufei had enough presence of mind... not to do anything... too bad.

He rushed down the steps to the basement, the sound of his boots on the stone loud and hasty - half in a warning for those down there: not to let him catch them doing something that would make him angry. Only Wufei was never afraid of him, that's the thing...

The basement premises were chillier than the upper ones but also more stuffy - the ventilation in the building didn't work so well. And sand was everywhere, covering the floor, crackling under his feet as Treize walked along the corridor.

They didn't take his approach as warning - and in the end it was even worse than he expected. The smell assaulted his senses as he walked in - unbearable in a tiny room. The men didn't seem to notice it, however - which Treize could explain - carried away as they were. Two of his people - and Wufei perched on the edge of the table, his hands buried in the wide sleeves of the jacket. He must've been the only one who heard Treize approaching - and didn't react at it, didn't let the others know.

Well, as if Treize could expect anything else from him.

He stopped at the doorway, glaring at the men - and they noticed him finally; one of them backed away from the morph hastily; for the other it took a bit more time as he had to disengage himself, then rearrange his clothes. 

"Fuck... sir..."

Idiots; stupid idiots. Treize felt anger seize him - at the sordidness of the situation, at his obligation to deal with it. He leaned against the doorjamb, feeling how the dank air of the room was suffocating him. Couldn't they spare him from looking at their brutal entertainment? 

"Sorry, sir... didn't see you..." the men said breathlessly, zipping his pants.

"You may go." He prided himself on his voice sounding levelly. They walked past him out of the room and Treize felt this smell again, coming from them. Arousal... blood, sweat and semen. Was he too clean to understand it, as Wufei always scolded him - and too far from understanding to approve it?

Just three of them stayed now - he, Wufei and the morph - and Wufei shifted lightly on the table, his thin figure seeming to consist just of angles and hard lines. His eyes met Treize's, unrepentant.

"You're crazy, aren't you?" He couldn't help saying that. Wufei looked like he expected Treize to lecture him - and what else could Treize do, anyway? "You know we wanted him to testify. No one will believe he tells the truth and does it willingly after what you've done. He's of no use for us any more!"

"Morphs heal fast." Wufei's mouth curved shortly - and then the boy jumped down from the table, walked up to the prisoner. "But it's not the point. He's of no use for us anyway."

The morph's body was limp, suspended on the arms wrenched behind his back, the flow of his hair nearly brushing the floor as his head sagged. His uniform jacket was gone and the shirt was shredded, half-deliberately, half during the beating, Treize realized - but his pants were lowered on purpose, no doubt of that - down to his chained, pulled apart ankles.

"No one will believe him all the same," Wufei said wrapping the morph's long hair around his palm and yanking the man's head back.

The morph must've been exhausted, barely conscious as he submitted to Wufei's gesture without struggle. His blood-smeared face, raised to Treize, was blank, with fluttering eyelids over the eyes full of pain and shock in black pupils and blue irises. Blue...

A moment later Treize understood what Wufei meant. The morph's features had no sign of his origin in them; no outturned nostrils demonstrating nasal passages - no vein-lined pallid skin. The morph was pale - looked sick, in fact - but the color of his skin was white, not greyish. 

"We were lucky to take a morph who doesn't look like a morph and no one will believe what he is," Wufei said sardonically, letting the man's hair go.

He'd been wearing a helmet, Treize thought. A question nearly left his lips - if the man was really a morph, not some traitor. But of course, he was; there was enough of his blood everywhere to witness for that; purple - not red. The man's hands were deformed as well, the fingers too long - bloodied now as he must've clawed on his cuffs.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" Wufei said.

"It's all right," Treize found himself saying, denying that the note of irony in Wufei's voice hurt him; as if it was Treize who'd chosen to take this particular morph with them - as if it was all his fault. "We still have other means to prove our case, other evidence..."

Wufei's ink-black eyes looked at him with that strange expression that both maddened him and made him feel weak in his knees: both affectionate and contemptuous. As if between them two it was Treize who was young and immature - and Wufei was adult and knowledgeable.

"What I want to say, Treize, is that you don't need to worry your pretty head about damage control. The morph is worthless; and he'd never known much anyway, he was rather a dummy there... honorable Zechs Merquise... He told us everything he knew, it wasn't difficult to make him talk. But we can't use him to testify - so, I don't see a reason why our people shouldn't have some fun."

Why shouldn't they? Treize wondered about it. He hated morphs, wanted to see as many of them dead as possible. But not like this... he didn't want this to be done. To one of his captives. By his people. It was what defined them as human, wasn't it? Kept them from crossing that line of inhumanity he thought so much about.

But, maybe, it was just theorizing. Maybe, he didn't understand. His people's anger demanded more than just shooting a few of morphs during the attack. His people wanted something more tangible - like an impact of their fists against a responsive body, like hearing their enemy's voice crying out in pain, begging them for mercy. Like this smell of blood that made Treize really sick but probably excited others even more.

"You can stop worrying and go drink yourself to sleep now, Treize," Wufei added coldly, defiantly. Treize didn't react to the insult - it was too deliberate and he had more important things to say.

"You offered them all to participate in it, didn't you?" 

Wufei's face was tranquil, his figure so narrow, brittle as he stood with his arms wrapped around himself. The chained morph's head dropped again. Blood and sperm kept rolling down over the morph's thighs and Treize looked away; this sight was too much for him.

"Only those who wanted," Wufei said brightly. "Unsurprisingly, there were quite a lot of them. But you didn't give an order forbidding it, did you, Captain?"

It was true; he didn't.

"I thought it went without saying that you wouldn't... wouldn't abuse and rape a prisoner."

These were wrong words, he knew it - and the payback was swift. Wufei's face changed, his lips spread in a sweetest smile, his voice sounding just too kind.

"Oh really? And I thought, on the contrary, it went without saying that a prisoner always gets raped and abused. Stupid me! I must've misunderstood something... in my time."

"Don't fool around, Wufei!"

Treize bit his tongue not letting his voice break, said the words through clenched teeth. Wufei's dark eyes in meagre light of the basement scintillated.

"Fool around? I don't think there's anything to be called 'fooling around' here. Anyway, we didn't harm him so much, did we? Morphs can bear more than humans, it's well known. And twenty men or something is what even a human can bear... even a boy."

Treize felt splitting headache; how unfalteringly Wufei could aim in his soft spots. How well he knew where Treize's soft spots were... a hint, a reminder - to spur his memory, to make pain flood him. Treize wondered if reminding hurt Wufei as much as it hurt him; very possibly it did. Only his boy never showed the pain.

"But if you feel so sorry for him," there was deceptive mildness in Wufei's voice - mildness that Treize didn't believe but couldn't avoid being affected with, "if you think he shouldn't suffer for what he and his race did... Well, since we don't need him for testifying anyway, I don't see any problem with releasing him. Release him, Treize. Show your humanity you like to talk so much about."

Oh God... There had been times when talking about humanity, about future were not just a travesty for Wufei. There had been times when they could talk... kiss and talk.

Wufei's glimmering eyes didn't leave him, a little half-smile turning the corners of his mouth - and under this stare Treize reached for his gun. He knew what Wufei meant under release - never misunderstood him; there was no other way to let the morph go. The handle lay in his hand smoothly, habitually. He stepped towards the morph and reached for his hair.

The long strands were soft and smooth, silky even despite the sand in them. Treize pulled on them, making the morph raise his head. The bloodied face, so unbearably human, was tilted up to him now, the morph's blue eyes with hugely dilated pupils looking at him.

The creature was almost beautiful, Treize thought absently; by human standards, of course - the features clean, nearly delicate, the mouth small and pink. And those long black eyelashes trembling over the widened eyes. The morph's lips were split badly, the bruises on his face dark and cruel - and this damage strangely made him look younger... more vulnerable.

Treize raised the gun.

"Zechs... Merquise?" Wasn't it the name of the morph Wufei mentioned? The dark eyelashes, so long they seemed to be made up with mascara, fluttered as the man's eyes widened, locked on the gun. Treize pressed the muzzle to Zechs' forehead. The morph shivered minutely, letting Treize feel how he tried to withdraw involuntarily. "You're to be executed for your crimes."

The words came out almost softly - and indeed he didn't need to raise his voice, so close they stood. The morph's eyes looked in his, blinking; the man didn't say a word, didn't ask what right Treize had to judge and execute him.

Maybe, he understood as well that killing him now would mean sparing him from everything that could've waited for him here, in captivity, Treize thought; from Wufei's frenzied revenge, from others' anger. For a moment Treize took his gaze away from the morph's face and glanced at the boy. Wufei's face was an expressionless mask, his long slanted eyes focused on Treize, unblinking. And even though his lips didn't move, Treize felt as if he could hear Wufei's hard voice in his mind:

__

"Release him. Yeah right, spare him. Give him an easy death... what had never been given to me."

The right to judge and execute... did Treize really have it? _The revenge is mine..._ Wufei could judge - others who suffered from morphs could judge. But him, Treize?

He felt familiar despair flood him. The gun was pressed to Zechs' forehead, the morph's head immobile in Treize's grip and Treize could count the seconds passing - by his own heartbeats, by the blinks of the morph's darkened eyes, by the shallow gasps falling from Zechs' lips. He knew already he wouldn't shoot.

Treize hit with the handle; the sound of the morph's broken jaw was sickening, the impact reverberating through Treize's wrist. As the morph's head fell, a trickle of blue blood sliding from the corner of his mouth under the white net of hair, Treize stepped away and tucked the gun back.

He was at loss for words for a few moments, not knowing how to explain cruelty - or weakness - of his decision - but as it turned out, the words were not necessary. Wufei's eyes glowed, looking at him - warm, nearly gentle.

"Well done, Captain."

Treize wanted to argue, to say that his choice didn't imply that Wufei and others were free to continue with their practices now - but it did imply and he knew it, so, he spared his breath.

Lightly, gracefully, Wufei moved towards him, as near as it was only possible between them, with Wufei's shoulder almost touching Treize's. The boy raised on tiptoes, for his mouth to be on the level of Treize's ear, whispered barely audibly the words Treize knew he would hear, wanted to hear so much:

"Go to my room. I'll be shortly."

Shortly... after just enough time to initiate some other cruel game with the morph. But together with bitterness, there was embarrassing, undeniable heat that filled Treize, washed him from head to toes. Wasn't it in expectation of these words that he'd done - or, rather, hadn't done what he was going to?

"Get ready," Wufei whispered.

He would be. The blindfold; the cuffs locked on his wrists and ankles - things done habitually, almost automatically. Things that could seem a kinky S&M game if Treize didn't know their point, didn't know that it all was to make Wufei feel safe, to make Treize unable to reach to him, to touch him... the only way Wufei could be with him.

He walked out of the room, sand screeching under his boots, with just one glance back. Wufei didn't look at him by now, gathering some things of the table; and the morph's head was lowered, his long hair obscuring his face again, as purple blood soaked into the ground between his feet.

***********************************************************

Time was running away like sand through his fingers and all he could do was just watch it impotently, desperately. But even despair lost its edge with the weakening of his body. Nearly two weeks of fever had worn him out - Trowa had never felt so feeble and vulnerable before.

Surely, J and Wataru tried to do their best - but little depended on them. The only one who could change something for Trowa was Treize but day after day passed with him saying the same thing: no corridor opened yet, they had to wait. He knew Treize didn't lie - the man knew how important the vaccine was, said he would do everything for it to be delivered, and Trowa believed him. It was just the fate that turned this way; ill fate.

Trowa knew Quatre had recorded his testimony and it was sent to whomever Treize sent his messages - the Board, the Parliament, media. He'd never known what Quatre had said there; on that morning the boy had been so nervous that couldn't put the buttons through the buttonholes of his shirt.

"Would you like me to go with you?" Trowa asked almost unexpectedly for himself. There was no reason why Quatre would want him there, and nothing threatened the boy... and when did he become Quatre's self-appointed protector, anyway?

Quatre made a small gasp, looking at Trowa with the weird mixture of guilt and hope in his incredibly expressive eyes - then shook his head.

"It's 'kay. I'd better do it... on my own."

Trowa just nodded; he really didn't want to be there. For some reason the thought of Quatre's childish voice recounting everything that had been done to him made him feel ill. Of course, the past was there, wasn't going to go anywhere... 

Trowa didn't know how many others among Treize's people had heard Quatre's statement - and talked to Treize as soon as he could.

"Order your people to stay away from him, sir, so that no one dared to... to force him. I know one can think that if he was what he was, it's possible to use him. But no one must touch him here... unless he wants it himself."

"You can take it for granted," Treize said seriously. "The boy is safe with my men. They'd never do him any harm."

Trowa wanted to ask about Zechs at that moment, what happened to the morph - but he never managed to make himself say this name. He never, never wanted to hear about Zechs Merquise again, never wanted to think about the morph. 

He and Quatre were given a place at the infirmary, those two beds where they'd spent the first night. The big room was generally empty, so, they had it all for themselves. And while Quatre used to wander around the building, Trowa seldom walked out, mainly because he wasn't sure in his strength any more. It'd happened once that his legs gave up somewhere on the way and one of Treize's men had to carry him back to the bed - and Trowa didn't want it to occur again. 

His world seemed diminished this way: to faintly waving nets around him, to J's and Treize's visits... and to Quatre's presence that Trowa didn't notice how he started liking or needing. To himself, Trowa explained it with Quatre's own words he remembered from prison time - when Quatre had said he wanted to be near to Trowa because it was for such a short time, because soon Trowa would be gone from him.

Maybe, it was that - he would be gone soon. Whether he would leave to deliver the vaccine - or whether it'd be departure to death - it was just a matter of days either way. Soon they'd part and Trowa wouldn't see him again. He wondered if the aching feeling he had when thinking about it was regret. Regret of not seeing again the pale tender face, its features so cute and its mournful eyes of such un-childish seriousness - of not hearing the high-pitched voice asking another one of those annoying questions:

"Why did you get up? Didn't J tell you to stay in bed? Look, you'll lose your IV!"

Or:

"Do you want peach cake? It's soft."

"I can chew, I can't swallow," Trowa said angrily.

There was always some kind of cake or cookies Quatre was gnawing at; the cook apparently had a soft spot about him. Maybe, quite a lot of insurrectionists did - maybe, Quatre reminded them of their children or younger brothers.

A part of Trowa's mind was glad to know that Quatre was safe and well liked here; but a part of him tinged with a confused emotion he couldn't find a name for until realized one day it was jealousy. It was unfamiliar, absurd - because what kind of jealousy he could feel about the boy who was nothing for him, about a former - and, maybe, future prostitute? He had other things to worry about, much more important things than to think about those whom Quatre's mind and body might belong.

But nights were the most difficult time to direct his thoughts the right way. And it was at night when, in fever, Raymond Dien's face appeared in front of him and Trowa felt guilty and desperate more than ever that he hadn't done anything yet, that there was a chance he wouldn't be able to do anything.

Trowa had already decided that if he couldn't deliver the vaccine, if he failed - he wouldn't have it removed to stay alive, as Doctor J offered him to do. He didn't need his life like that - in shame, in failure. It nearly enraged J - his refusal.

"What did I say? A fanatic!"

"You're not supposed to know about that stuff at all," Trowa said weakly. "And I'm sure Treize didn't tell you."

Well, J obviously knew everything now; and Quatre knew as well - Trowa just declined every attempt of the boy to talk about it. He didn't need Quatre to feel sorry for him; he didn't deserve pity if he was to fail... and he'd have his award if he got back to the Order.

At night Trowa lay listening to the jingle of springs in Quatre's bed as the boy tossed and turned unceasingly. For someone so light, Quatre certainly made awfully much noise in his sleep. As if fighting someone... so close and yet not close enough.

The truth was sometimes Trowa missed the necessity of their forced intimacy, like in the prison cell, when they went asleep with their limbs tangled and feeling the breath of each other. It wasn't cold at the infirmary - no reason for them get close. So, there was just Quatre's usual forwardness as he sometimes flopped on Trowa's bed - or a reached hand in the darkness catching Trowa's as Quatre babbled sleepily of some places he'd seen or some things he'd done.

And when one morning Trowa found Quatre in his bed, curled on the blanket, he tried not to think about the joy that fluttered inside him. He turned, spooning against the boy, and pretend sleeping.

* * *

"It's going to storm tonight." J dropped two respiratory masks on their beds. "Put them on when it starts."

"Is it going to be so sandy here?" Trowa raised his eyes from a medical book; whether he was going to die in a few days or not, he didn't think he should've wasted his time without learning something useful.

"No more than usual," J shrugged. "See all this sand on the floor? When Queen of Sand storm comes, it'll all get up and hang in the air. You'll cough it out later with pieces of your lungs."

Doctor J was exaggerating, as usual.

"If you get scared, stop by at the recreation room or something," he winked before leaving.

"Scared?" Quatre drawled. "What did he mean?"

His small tongue was stuck between his teeth as he colored the drawing. Someone had given Quatre a pad of paper and fountain pens and he was drawing almost all the time recently - unfamiliar landscapes with strange sad animals on them, animals with nearly human eyes - horses, deer, predators, joined in some weird dance of part-courting part-preying. Quatre's drawings surprised Trowa - not with their style that was a bit naive even if neat - but with the feeling of maturity that came from them, absence of explicit violence mixed with constant threat there.

"Don't you draw people?" he asked Quatre once.

"I don't draw people," the boy shook his fair head. He didn't draw dogs as well, Trowa thought and bit his tongue not to say something tactless.

"There's something for you." Suddenly Quatre sat on his heels, the paper pressed to his chest. "I mean if you want that, of course."

"For me?"

"Yes. I've drawn it for you. But if you don't want it, it's okay." The boy's voice was getting agitated, had that edge in it that Trowa sometimes thought didn't have to be there normally.

"Sure I want it."

"All right." The tension was gone from Quatre's voice; he folded the paper and handed it to Trowa. "No, don't look. It's..." he said with an effort and Trowa looked at him in surprise - Quatre had never tried to explain his drawings before. "It's for you."

He suddenly flushed, bit his lip savagely, his expression becoming the one of such misery and loneliness - and Trowa felt a pang of regret for Quatre's openness gone. As if the boy was building a barrier around himself. Trowa had known all about building barriers... it didn't feel good.

And at the next moment the first crash of thunder came.

The light above their heads flickered and dimmed visibly - but even like that they could see the little grits from the floor rise slowly and hang in the air in spirals. Trowa could see it the little fair hairs on Quatre's forearms rose with electricity. 

"Don't breathe!" In a moment Quatre was over him, put the mask over Trowa's nose and mouth. Satisfied, he put on his own mask, looking at Trowa with mysteriously glimmering eyes over the edge of the respirator. The sand was swaying in the air slowly, gathering in long stripes, like strange airy cobras dancing on their tails.

"Cool." Quatre's voice was muffled but still understandable.

It was cool; Trowa nodded quietly. Doctor J had said nothing about covering their eyes, maybe, because he didn't need to bother with it himself - but likely it was not so good to look at it as well. Trowa started feeling his eyes sting. And then, in one more rumble of thunder, the light was gone all in all.

They usually didn't leave the light on in the infirmary for night - but there used to be some light coming from the next room - and Trowa knew somehow Quatre liked it, probably had been used to sleeping with light from the prison days. Now the darkness was complete - apparently the light in the whole building was gone.

Thunderstorm gave place to silence - and Trowa strained his eyes trying to see at least something, discern Quatre's figure. But even a cat would see nothing in this darkness. The rumble came again, now closer, and Trowa felt sand lash against his cheek.

"Quatre?"

"Ah?"

The voice was breathless and came not quite from where Trowa expected it to. It strangely disturbed him, not to be sure where Quatre was - as if there was something important in knowing it, as if the boy was threatened somehow and he, Trowa, could protect him. He reached his hand forward blindly - and met a small cold palm in the air. He clasped Quatre's fingers and pulled slightly.

"Come here."

The boy moved immediately, eagerly; Trowa's bed sagged under their joint weight - and a moment later Quatre's shoulder, bony and thin, pressed to his. For a moment, the pleasure of this touch, unexplainable, was so strong that Trowa felt overwhelmed, uncaring about anything else but this warmth spreading inside him. Quatre fidgeted, settling more comfortably.

"Close your eyes," Trowa said.

"Why?" Quatre's voice was little, mesmerized.

"I dunno. It'll hurt your eyes."

"How do you know?"

"Common sense."

"You... you don't have common sense, Trowa," Quatre giggled suddenly. It was a nervous giggle, not an easy one - and Trowa caught himself on feeling concerned for the boy again.

"What is it about?" He made his voice sound carefully level.

"It's a fact. Everyone says it. J says it."

"J is a weirdo - and, so, you listen to him?"

"I do." The laughter was gone, abruptly as it happened to Quatre all too often, exchanged with seriousness - and suddenly Trowa knew what Quatre would say next and didn't want to hear it. "Trowa..."

"Queen of Sand - no wonder they call it so."

"Trowa." Insistence in Quatre's voice was so strong that Trowa couldn't interrupt him. "You don't need to die, you know. Even if there's no corridor till then."

"Shut up."

"There must be another way..."

"Shut up!"

He couldn't bear it any more. In his anxiety to make Quatre silent he reached blindly, finding Quatre's face, feeling smooth cheek and sandy gauze of the mask. He felt Quatre back away from him slightly.

"What're you doing?"

"Checking if you obey me and keep your eyes closed."

"You..." The little frown between Quatre's eyebrows fluttered against his fingers. "Why do you I have to obey you? Do you keep *your* eyes closed?"

A narrow sand-covered palm groped over his face and Trowa pushed it away unconsciously.

"You stubborn one," Quatre muttered.

"No more stubborn than you."

"More."

"Not more."

"More!"

It was ridiculous; and it got more ridiculous in a moment, as Quatre pushed him suddenly, turning him down on the bed. Trowa wrestled blindly, not knowing what he tried to achieve - to push the boy away or to pull him closer. Quatre was over him, pressing him down to the bed - and Trowa didn't know if he couldn't wrestle him away or didn't want to. Quatre's body was along his, all the way, just thin clothes separating them - and Trowa could feel every bone and muscle in this thin form, could feel how Quatre's chest fluttered against his. He writhed, caught Quatre's wrists and held them - and their faces nearly touched, mask against mask - but even through them Trowa fancied he could feel Quatre's breath.

It felt so good; so good that Trowa's head seemed light and swimming as Quatre leaned on him, silent, in darkness.

What are you doing to me, he wanted to ask. What am I doing to myself? But he couldn't - his thoughts lost their coherence, his body lost its strength.

"Trowa!" suddenly Quatre's hands slipped out of his slackened grip and touched his face insistently, carefully. "Trowa, are you all right?"

I am, he wanted to say but only shivered violently - and Quatre was off of him at once, the boy's arms hugging him, raising him into a sitting position.

"Trowa, do you feel all right?" The boy's voice was plaintive, begging. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, baka," he said finally and leaned against Quatre's shoulder and decided that he wouldn't open his eyes any more, would just sit like this and wait for the storm to pass.

To be continued

**__**

Oh my... People, you're so nice to me! I love your reviews so much, every one of them :-) Please know that you make me totally happy. And don't you stop!!! Anyway, I'm somewhere on chapter 10 now - and I just have a question to ask: will your hearts be broken if there are no Heero, Relena and Duo in this story? I was going to introduce them there but somehow it doesn't quite work. So, will it be okay if we just do without them? :-)


	8. Part 8

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 8

"I told to give him a mask!"

Treize nearly regretted he started saying it; Wufei stopped lazy stirring of a spoon in a bowl of corn flakes and looked up. Wufei didn't eat much - ate so little, in fact, that sometimes Treize wondered how he managed to keep functioning. And now Treize interrupted one of those rare occasions.

But it was too late - and he had to talk.

Rivulets of milk turned under Wufei's spoon. His eyes were down. The long eyelashes seemed to be drawn in ink - until they rose, giving a flash of dark fire.

"What's the problem? He's not dead."

Exotic beauty of Wufei's face had nearly distracted Treize from what he wanted to say - but the voice, so casual, brought him back to his senses. Anger rose in him, dark, seething.

"I can't believe you just say it like this."

"I can't believe you make such a fuss because of a fuckin' morph, Treize." 

Wufei talked in that deliberate, purring voice that had nothing in common with his normal one; Treize hated this voice. It alone added to his fury more than anything else. 

"If I have to explain that even in war, not inflicting unnecessary suffering to an enemy is what distinguishes us from morphs, Wufei..."

The morph had spent almost two days in the sandstorm without protection; in the basement - it must've been hell... If he were a human, he would be dead.

"I know, I know." Wufei's bony hand waved, stopping him. For a moment, a flash of skin above his wrist was revealed and then a too long sleeve of his baggy sweater fell over it quickly. "You talked about it before."

"If I have to talk about it over and over..."

A spoon fell in the bowl; Wufei got on his feet.

"But I don't have to listen about it."

He was going to walk out and Treize didn't have a way to stop him; unless he'd apply force - but even in his fury he managed to keep away from it. Wufei had been forced enough in his life for him, Treize, to do it.

"Why are you worried so much?" Wufei didn't leave. He stopped close to Treize - so close that they nearly touched - nearly but not quite. Wufei's pale golden face was tilted up to Treize. This closeness made Treize's thoughts mess; he could almost feel the heat of Wufei's body - one more step and he'd feel the bird-like thinness of his bones...

Poisonously beautiful... so desirable... and unrepentant.

"It's a morph, Treize, you didn't forget it, did you? He might have a human face but it doesn't change what he is. He's as much a criminal as all the rest of them." Wufei's eyes were serious, looking at him unfalteringly - and Treize felt his resoluteness drain away. "He deserves everything he gets," Wufei continued. "He deserves to die a thousand deaths. That's what everyone thinks."

The words made Treize feel a flash of anger again.

"Everyone, right? I'm sick of this place turning into a brothel, with my people participating in gang rape and torture..."

But it's only because you, Captain, allowed them, Treize thought bitterly and stopped himself from thinking more. Yet Wufei knew him too well to spare him.

"Isn't it up to you, Treize, to stop it? There are so many ways to take care of him. Shoot him. Or take him to the desert at noon without protection. Or let him suffocate in the storm. And you'll get beautiful Zechs Merquise off of your hands. Well, not so beautiful any more - it's wearing him out, even with his morph's endurance, to serve as a bitch for the whole camp, you're right about it. But let me tell you something, Treize." Wufei's voice dropped so much Treize could barely figure out the words - and strained to hear, even knowing what would be said. "As long as you don't kill him - I'll do what I want."

"It's... inhumane."

"Inhumane?" Treize regretted immediately saying this word - but it was too late. "What are you talking about, Treize? Listen to yourself! You don't know what inhumane is. What did you see to judge about it?"

"It's not true..."

"You've seen nothing, Treize." The voice became merciless, lacing on his nerves with diamond hardness. "Your talks of right and wrong are just that - talks. You've never even been wronged in your life. Humane, inhumane... who the fuck cares? The morph should be dead - or as long as he's not dead, he should suffer."

"It's not about the morph, Wufei."

"About what, then?"

About you, Treize wanted to say; about you and me. 

"You challenged my order. Have you heard about chain of command?"

"I'm sorry," Wufei said lightly. "I won't do it again... Captain."

He slapped Wufei. Slapped so hard that his palm went numb - and Wufei's head rocked. The boy swayed, making a step back. A strand of hair fell out of his tight ponytail, brushed against the cheek. He touched his jaw, looking up at Treize.

"Thank you... _mon Captain_."

The enormity of what he'd done descended on Treize, just a second before after his hand had raised. His palm was stinging - he looked at it as if not able to believe he'd actually done it.

"I didn't... did I hurt you badly? You okay?"

He stepped towards Wufei, reached for him. Wufei avoided his touch - as he always did, his eyes glimmering as he looked at Treize's face. 

"What, do you think you broke my jaw? Like you did with the morph? Speaking about inhumane..."

Treize's chest was heaving. He sought for words and could find none.

"Don't worry. You need to apply more force to really hurt me."

"Wufei..."

"I don't need your apologies, Treize, or your concern. Spare it for the morph if you want. Show him your weakness." Wufei walked past Treize, stopped at the door. Treize couldn't look at him, looked down in shame. "You're so weak. Your weakness is that you can't decide whether you want to be kind or cruel. You do everything by halves. You know what the road to hell is paved with? It's about you. I pray your people don't see the weakness of their leader... It's my privilege to see it."

Pain and anger, mixed in great sorrow, filled Treize. He looked, saw Wufei's lowered face with a strand of hair falling over his forehead. Treize's lips felt numb as he whispered one question - the question that hurt him most of all to think about:

"Why do you hate me so much? Because I failed you... because I didn't rescue you in time..."

He saw Wufei jerk his head as if being slapped again; and when his eyes met Treize's, there was such dark fury blazing in them that Treize nearly backed away.

"I hate you, don't I, Treize? And you love me. Only your love is killing me."

It's not true, Treize wanted to cry out - but no words came; his throat feeling paralyzed. And Wufei didn't wait for him to talk.

"Stay away from me, Captain. Go to your beloved morph if you want - but leave me alone."

Treize watched him walk out.

***********************************************************

I didn't see him. I stood in front of the door, hopelessly trying to open it without letting the tray out of my hands. Empty glasses on it clanked against each other pitifully. Of course, it was my sheer laziness; Leo, the cook, asked me to bring the glassware from the recreation room - and I surely needed to pile everything together to make it in one go. So, now I unsuccessfully tried to reach for the button that would let me in.

I already was going to put the tray down - when the door slammed open.

The tray jumped, the glasses sliding from it, hitting the floor in a pretty flood; I gasped miserably seeing it. My shoulder ached where the door hit it. He walked past me.

The collision didn't slow him - but he seemed to notice, glanced back, his slanted black eyes looking with disdain. I had time to notice that Wufei's lips seemed bruised and swollen slightly, his hair in mild disarray. His gaze slid over me with loathing and I found myself muttering helplessly, my hands still clenched on the tray:

"I'm sorry..."

I was; it was my fault - and even if it wasn't, I still thought it better to apologize. Wufei Chang was not someone you wanted to make angry. Treize's right hand man and the best killer in the group - and he was a boy just of my age...

He turned away from me and hissed two words as he continued walking:

"Stupid slut."

Well, I certainly deserved it. I put the tray on the floor, rubbed my shoulder and squatted, gathering broken glass from the floor, when he was beside me.

"You." His voice was completely toneless, so flat that it was almost difficult to understand the words. "What's your name? Quatre Winner, right?" He hadn't said a word to me until now - but he had been in the room when I recorded my statement, so, he must've remembered. "Come with me. Leave it, you'll clean it later."

I got up and followed him. It didn't come to my mind I could disobey - he was in position to give me orders; in fact, everyone of Treize's people was - it was just their kindness that they didn't do it or did it nicely. I didn't ask anything - well, Wufei Chang certainly didn't dispose to asking.

I don't know what I was thinking about when he let me into his room. Likely, kind of fascinated; I'd never thought about entering his quarters, it didn't even come to my mind that I ever would. The room was painted dark; even the light seemed to be lost there. Everything was made in dull colors Wufei apparently preferred, and for his clothes, too. A wide bed covered with black sheets, a table, nets in the corner of the room. It was empty around; carefully neat - as neat as seeping sand allowed it to be - and as carefully void of any possessions. The only thing my eyes stopped on was a mirror on the wall, covered with a dark cloth... It made me creepy; it was like when having a dead man in a room, wasn't it?

I caught myself on staring and looked away quickly. I still found myself unable to look at Wufei's face. Pathetic, wasn't I? So nervous in his presence... as if he threatened me. His eyes looked unkindly, and then he winced - as if my presence caused him headache.

"I see you're wearing my clothes."

I nodded, swallowing. I knew they belonged to him even if it was Doctor J who'd given them to me. I feel uncomfortable not knowing what to say; should I have thanked him for it?

"Take them off," he said.

At the first moment I almost couldn't believe I heard it right. It was so fast I was forgetting things - a few days of no one mentioning those things and I almost could forget how it was.

"Faster," Wufei said. 

There was no arousal in his eyes - those things I recognized well - just annoyance - and yet I knew I heard him right and he really meant it. My heart started pounding.

"Treize..."

A flicker of hatred in his eyes became brighter.

"He's Captain Khushrenada for you, isn't he?"

"He said no one would..." I babbled; it felt so stupid to say that but I couldn't help it. "He said no one would make me... have sex..."

"Have sex?" His laughter made me feel small and pitiful at once, even if Wufei wasn't older or stronger than me. "Who said anything about having sex? I have no intention of fucking you. You don't think you're so irresistible, are you?"

My hands started shaking; what else could I think when he'd said it - and yet now I felt ashamed for my thoughts. He made me feel so embarrassed somehow - more than I had ever felt, and I thought I knew all about feeling embarrassed.

"I won't do anything to you," he said calmly and then added. "I swear."

A promise from anyone else - why would I believe it? But he was Wufei, Treize's... Treize's friend and lover. He couldn't be dishonorable. 

"Do what I say." He noticed I still hesitated. "You owe me. You owe everyone here, don't you? If we didn't take you with us - you would still be there, in prison - and they would fuck the shit out of you every night. And the same would be with your buddy."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks as he mentioned Trowa; Wufei didn't dare to talk like this about him. He could say whatever he wanted about me, I didn't care - the more so as it was all true. But Trowa... He couldn't use dirty words about Trowa.

I just wanted him to stop talking, so, I unbuttoned my shirt; just to let him see I obeyed him. And he did promise he wouldn't do anything - I had to believe him, I had no other choice.

Of course, I could fight or try to walk out - but what he said was true, after all. I owed him.

It wasn't cold in the room; I just shivered with anxiety. Wufei's gaze slid over me, his eyes heavy-lidded, uninterested.

"Take off everything."

I did. He looked at me for a few moments. The pounding of blood in my ears grew worse. I tried to reason myself that there was nothing new for me in this position, nothing to get worked up about... and he promised, he did promise...

"Get in bed," Wufei said.

All right, I had done it this far. He didn't move when I slipped under thin black sheet. It felt at least marginally better to be covered again. Wufei winced as if going to mind me using his sheets but didn't say anything, stepped behind the nets.

The bed was wide enough to accommodate two people - and there were cuffs fixed at the headboard, the sight that made me panic, until I realized they were put too wide, for an adult man - and a tall one. I just wouldn't fit in them. Behind the multi-layered nets, Wufei was just a shadow, narrow and dark, the rustle of material the only sound I heard. As he walked out, he was hardly less clothed - a long black kimono covering his body, a sash tied on his tiny waist.

He was so thin... I'd never realized it, under his shapeless clothes; he was thin like a stem, and deliberately straight. He walked to the bed without looking at me. His hair was loose.

He was beautiful, I thought suddenly. If I was to draw him, I wouldn't possibly draw him as an animal - but as a flower - a black rose, cut off... Still life.

What silly thoughts these were. But there was some feeling of unreality in what happened. Wufei got onto the bed - and yet I knew he didn't want anything from me. He was so distant - more distant than if there had been any clothes separating us.

I don't want to be with him, I thought; I want to be with Trowa, in our room that became home for me during last days. 

Wufei got under the sheet, carefully not touching me. It was so quiet. He lay against the pillow and I lay as well, small shivers going through my body. Ridiculous - wasn't it? One time I even worked up enough courage to start asking him - and he looked at me with antipathy distorting his smooth face:

"Keep quiet."

And he was completely quiet, not even his breath audible - all I heard now was just wild thumping of my heart. Then there was another sound - steps in the corridor.

Wufei moved so swiftly, I didn't have time to react. He was over me, his hand under my chin, pressing so hard it was difficult to swallow. I heard him whisper in my ear:

"Make a sound and I'll kill you."

His face was very close as he made me stay motionless - and his lips were almost touching mine - but not in a kiss. An imitation of kiss... Wufei's hair, soft - the only soft thing about him - fell over my face.

The steps reached the threshold and halted - and I knew whose these steps were. I understood everything. 

I should've fought - it was not that I was afraid of Wufei's threat; but I felt so weak suddenly I couldn't make a sound even if I wanted... just to look helplessly.

As if he'd only heard the steps, Wufei turned back, letting me go a little. I could see the man at the door now, could see Treize - but not his face, not his eyes. My vision blurred and my heart thudded so much it seemed to be about to break through my ribcage.

"Sorry, Treize. I thought you understood. We don't have anything in common. The little whore has much more in common with me than you."

Wufei's thin cool fingers brushed over my chest, pinched a nipple. He pulled the sheet away. I had nothing under it. There was something disgustingly hypnotizing in his actions. I just couldn't move.

He must've realized I wasn't hard. I felt his hand cover my groin but there was nothing else I felt. Shame made me numb. I couldn't discern the expression on Treize's face. For all I could know, he might've been about to kill me - and I deserved it - and, maybe, it would be better if he did it. Better than thinking what he thought about me... 

"And you can go share the company of _mon cher_ Zechs Merquise if you want, Treize," Wufei said sweetly. I saw Treize turn away and walk out.

For a few more moments Wufei listened to the wandering away steps - and then the hand under my chin was gone.

"Get up."

Feeling somewhat dizzy, I scrambled out of the bed and saw Wufei, his kimono unperturbed, get up, take a wet tissue from a box, wipe his hands on it. After he'd touched me...

The white crumpled tissue floated on the floor and I couldn't take my eyes away from it. 

What a fool... what a fool I was - let myself being used like this - like this tissue; let him play with me to hurt Treize. He'd better raped me, I thought.

"Move. Get dressed and get out." He yanked the sheets from the bed, crumpled them and shoved in my hands. "Drop them to the laundry on your way."

It was not even the deliberation of everything he did, his gestures and words that got to me. He despised me - so what, he probably had the reason - and was I anything but despicable? What I couldn't forget was Treize's silence when he looked at us. I never wanted to hurt Treize.

Treize had saved my life - and he made me believe I could start from a clean slate, that my past didn't matter so much after all. I even hoped Treize could like me a little.

"What's wrong with you?" Wufei said indignantly. "You're not only a whore but also dumb?"

I don't know what happened to me; my head was burning and the words came out without my wish. The words were impotent, outrageous - but I couldn't stop, even though I knew I shouldn't have said them, would hate myself for saying them. 

"So, I'm a whore and you can't stand me so much? I'm too dirty for you, ain't I? And what are you? You aren't better than me!" I knew it was not right what I said - it was irreparable. I saw how his eyes grew wider - but I just couldn't stop. "I saw the scar on your hand." When he'd held me, the sleeve of his kimono slid down - and there was a trace of bluish, deformed skin under it, going from his wrist up to his arm. "I know where these things come from! If you can't wash after being with a morph... it turns acidic after a while... it leaves traces like that... They fucked you, too - just like me..."

Wufei hit me. I still was talking when a blow threw me on the floor. The punch was heavy - almost unbelievably heavy, coming from a person slight like this; my head was ringing and my tongue got between my teeth, making blood fill my mouth.

He stood over me, his arms crossed, and the corner of his mouth was twitching. I lashed at him, half-blindly; I didn't know whom I hated more - him for starting it all or myself for the foul words I said. I must've hurt him with my words so much. 

He caught my wrists and hit me in the left side, against my barely healed ribs. I shrieked; pain sliced through me like heated blade. He moved so fast - I didn't have time to shield myself. I was on the floor again and he was over me, his hand in my hair.

Wufei's face slipped out of focus as he slammed my head against the floor. His knees pressed on my sides, my ribs ablaze with pain. My mouth filled with blood as the room rocked around me. He kept hitting me and I thought that there is happened - he'd kill me now... but it wouldn't be so bad to let it happen.

Then suddenly his weight on me was gone and the blows stopped. For a little while I still couldn't see clearly; red stains floated in front of my eyes. Then the haze was gone.

Trowa was there. Trowa - as always - had come to save me. Wufei sat on the floor, sucking blood from his lip. The kimono pooled around him and he drew it closer, wrapping himself tighter into it.

I sat up, looking in a worry, afraid that Wufei could do something, could attack Trowa - and Trowa was not in the right state to fight. But Wufei stayed where he was - and Trowa stood between us. His pale face was strained and he looked so thin and pale, like a specter; I felt like reaching to him to help him stand.

Trowa, I wanted to call but couldn't say a word.

His gaze from under the long bangs was scathingly sharp as he turned to Wufei. His voice was scathing as well:

"You son of bitch, you can't take 'no' for an answer or what? Treize said no one would touch him. You didn't hear it, did you?"

I knew what was happening - he thought that Wufei... I wanted to tell him he was wrong, it was as much my fault as it was Wufei's.

"He didn't..." I started. Wufei's eyes glittered mockingly as he looked at Trowa. When he talked, it was just:

"Get out of my room."

"Let's go, Quatre." Trowa turned to me and gave me his hand. "Get dressed. Where are your clothes?"

And at the next moment his eyes found them. Folded neatly on the chair at the bed.

He looked at me. I knew what he was thinking, could read it in his eyes so clearly - and there was completely nothing I could do about it. I felt heat rising to my cheeks as I saw the look in Trowa's eyes change.

He looked away from me, turned to Wufei again.

"'No' is 'no', he can say it at any moment, do you understand? You have no right to force him, no matter what he did..."

"Spare me from your moralizing," Wufei's voice was almost a rustle, as if he was too bored to speak in a full voice.

I flushed. I got Trowa into this situation, it was all my fault...

"And you," Trowa looked at me again. "If you lead someone on and then turn him down, you should be prepared you'd get hurt, sooner or later. Or do you really... do you really like it rough?"

These words shattered something inside me. The numbness in me turned into blazing pain but I could move at last. I got up on my feet, struggled into my clothes, not looking at either of them. And in fact I could see almost nothing apart from red circles dancing in front of my eyes.

Do you really like it rough... These words kept pounding in my ears as I stumbled out of Wufei's room, walked along the corridor to the shower. I locked the door behind me and there, under lashing water, I threw up.

* * *

The water pattered over my shoulders, first lukewarm then cold. I shivered and turned it off. The floor felt shaky under my feet and I touched the tiled wall, steadying myself. Dizziness made me light-headed. I probably was concussed a little and my ribs ached numbly.

I looked at starting bruises with distaste. The water sloshed around my ankles as I walked up to the pile of my clothes and started dressing. I didn't want to go out; here, in the shower room with the door closed, I somehow felt sheltered, felt tranquil, more or less. But I couldn't stay here for the night, could I? It would be beyond ridiculous.

From the mirror, my own face looked at me - pale, with wet sticky bangs and wide open dark eyes. For a moment I stared at myself, feeling faintly sick at my own expression, then turned away.

Wufei was right; I really was dumb. I wanted to hit this face, to feel my hand smash against the smooth surface, splinters enter my hand. But it really wasn't the mirror I hated - it was myself - and how could I punish myself enough?

Pain shot through me, not from the places where Wufei had hit me but from my chest - cutting, physical pain - and I crumpled on my knees, hugging myself, rocking slightly to make it go away. It went away, eventually - leaving emptiness in its stead. 

"What have I done..."

My voice was just a whisper, nearly inaudible - but there was an answer to that question and I knew it so well. Whatever I had done - I had to live with it now. I just couldn't hate myself more for it that I already did.

I lost him; I lost Trowa. The only friend I had since my life had become that disaster. I'd met him when I thought I wouldn't ever meet another person who would care... for whom I would care... But how did I dare to hope?.. I was a fool and a whore - and I finally lost him. 

I hadn't expected it, had been afraid of different things - of him going away, of his crazy decision to keep the vaccine and die. But now he despised me - and whose fault was it except mine? I recalled how contempt filled his eyes as he realized that I didn't deserve his protection, that I must've given in to Wufei myself. He hadn't looked at me with such contempt even in the beginning, when we'd just met.

__

"Do you really like it rough..."

I hit the floor with both fists. There was water there and I saw a streak of blood dissolve in it and realized I must've cut my hand on a rough tile. It didn't matter. I wiped it on my pants and got up. Enough of hiding there; I should've faced the results of my stupidity.

Trowa... and Treize; two people who showed me kindness and I wronged both of them. But could anything else happen - could I *not* wrong them - being what I was? A whore both in my mind and in my body.

There was no one in the corridor and I felt small relief; I wouldn't be able to face anyone at the moment, to answer questions and give explanations. Yet my feet didn't want to walk to the infirmary; it was like I couldn't control my own body, forcing every step forward.

I thought about going to the recreation room instead, hide there and spend the night - and hated myself even more for this wish. Coward... If you can't face Trowa - then go shoot yourself, go walk to the desert and never come back. But if you were weak enough to let it all happen - then face the consequences.

The light was off but Trowa was in bed, I could see his narrow silhouette under the blanket. He was getting so thin, with the fever burning him out. I felt throbbing in my chest, thinking about it.

I stopped myself from looking at him; if I didn't, I would lose even the remnants of nerve I had. So, I walked up to my bed stiffly, discarded my clothes and dived under the blanket. Stains of white and red floated in front of my eyes as I listened to the beating of pulse in my ears. I turned away from Trowa, just to be as far away from him as possible, pulled the blanket over me and hugged myself.

Pain in my ribs was like small flashes of white - but the pain in my chest was heavy and swelling, not letting me breathe. My eyes were stinging and I bit my lip, forbidding tears to leak. What was the point of those tears?

It just hurt too much...

"Quatre?" The voice reached me - quiet, careful. I flinched; my hands clenched on the blanket so hard I probably was fraying it through. I wouldn't answer; I couldn't. Yes, I was a coward - but now, at the moment - I just couldn't handle that.

"Quatre? Are you all right?"

If I don't answer, he'll give up. He'll go to sleep and tomorrow... tomorrow it'll be another day - and I'll maybe have strength enough to face him.

Trowa was silent; he must've understood. And then I felt his light movement behind me - and my bed creaked under his weight as he sat down.

"Quatre..."

His hand was on my shoulder, hot even through the blanket - and I started back, shrunk away - so abruptly my head banged against the bed rails. Metallic taste in my mouth became stronger.

"Quatre," his voice was kind, almost soft - and his hand still was on me, on my arm now. "Are you hurt?"

Trowa's face was in shadows, serious and concerned. It hurt me to look at it, at its cleanness, at the deep green of his eyes. He was so perfect, in everything - nothing could foul him.

"Tell me. What's wrong? Should I call for J?"

How could he still worry about me? Even though he thought...

I shook my head fervently; I didn't need J, I didn't need anyone... it was breaking me to feel his hand against my skin, to see his patient gaze.

"Quatre... did he injure you?"

He asked as if it was important - as if he hadn't seen with his own eyes the evidence that I'd been with Wufei on my own will. Suddenly I couldn't breathe at all - and then something shattered in me. My voice came out high-pitched, distorted.

"I don't like it rough..."

His face changed, the look of concentration on it deepened.

"What?"

"I didn't lead him on. He said there wouldn't be anything, he wouldn't want sex with me!" Suddenly the words rushed out, in a flow, and I couldn't stop them. "He wanted it for a show, for Treize, to make Treize jealous, he just wanted me to play along..."

"Oh," Trowa said. I didn't know if there was any sense in what I said - but he seemed to understand. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Quatre."

These words of his - I suddenly knew that he really meant them - were almost unbearable. I gasped, looking at him, unable to say anything or move. And then pain was gone and relief came, so huge that it was akin to pain as well.

I threw myself at him, not caring any more how cautious he was about touching, wrapped my arms around him, pressed to him. The thinness of his body, hard lines of it, his heat - he was so wonderful. He was all I ever wanted... all I ever wanted was to hold him like this, to be this close with him. My hero, my beautiful, my beloved... 

He shifted awkwardly; and then his hands lay lightly on my shoulder-blades. I hugged him and he held me, his embrace getting tighter little by little.

"You don't hate me, really?" I whispered against his collarbone. It was almost like a kiss, with my lips so close to his skin. I heard his breath hasten a little.

"I don't hate you." There was a small chuckle in his voice and then he added with complete seriousness. "How can I..."

His arms around me were so warm, so safe - safe like I didn't feel anywhere, with anyone. With Trowa close, I knew there wouldn't be fear, no sick unreasonable panic that seized me sometimes - when everyone around seemed an enemy and even accidental touch hurt. Trowa's touches never hurt. I wanted him to touch me, wanted him to be near. I wanted him to be with me, to make love to me. I knew I wouldn't feel bad then, wouldn't think about the past - it would all be different. He would make me clean then.

But Trowa had made his choice; decided to stay chaste for the sake of his Order - and, so, there was no way...

I took his hand, pressed to my lips, kissing his long fingers. It was not that I made a move on him, I respected his decision. I just wanted to touch him at least this way, to let him know that I cared.

I expected Trowa to pull his hand away. His fingers trembled a little; and then he whispered, in trembling, fluctuating voice:

"Quatre... what're you doing?"

I kissed the tips of his fingers - and at the next moment he pulled me tighter to himself, his face pressed to my hair. I felt his breath become louder, harsher, his lips against my temple. His arm around my back pressed me harder, almost convulsively, his fingers sticking in my skin.

And then I understood. But I stayed quiet for a few more seconds, giving him a chance to back away, to change his mind. Our bodies stayed close - and then I took his fingers in my mouth, licked them. A shuddering breath Trowa made was almost like a moan, reverberating through all his body. His reaction awed me, so intense at such a small stimulation. His hand clenched harder on me, almost scraping me - but I didn't care, it couldn't feel any better. His thin fingers were hot and the tips of them rough; I sucked on them, feeling the tiny shivers going through his body.

"Quatre..." Trowa's voice almost as if he was going to cry - or beg me to spare him. But how could I spare him? He couldn't ask me for it - not now, when our bodies were merged so close together that there was only one way of being even closer.

I left his hand, turned, caught his face in my hands and plunged my tongue in his mouth. He seemed to be unsure what to do, responding feebly - and I felt my heart clenching painfully at the thought that he didn't know how it was done, had lived all those years without thinking or wanting to do it.

His breath was strained. Trowa's hands clasped on my shoulders as if he needed support to steady himself. There was a painful grimace on his face as I let him go.

"I don't feel your taste," he whispered in a hurt voice. "I want to know how you taste but I feel nothing, with this flu..."

When he started talking, I was afraid he'd changed his mind, would tell me to break off. But as he said it, I couldn't feel chuckling, strangely lightheaded with his words.

"It's okay," I said, "there are other things to do."

He kissed me then. Not on the lips - but quick, soft kisses, all over my face, somewhat greedy. His hands touched my body, feverishly and awkwardly, sliding over my chest and back and freezing there. He shivered unceasingly now; his hips moved in instinctive, uncontrollable motions. I pulled him to myself, let us both fall on the bed, him over me. He was hard - I could feel it - and he flinched greatly as his cock pressed against my thigh.

He kissed my chest now; his eyes were tightly shut and there was almost an expression of pain on his face. I thought he wouldn't bear it for long.

"Trowa... Trowa." He looked like waking up from a dream as his eyes opened. "Undress."

He obeyed me without a pause, got free from his clothes. His narrow body, golden-pale, was perfect in its lines, a jagged scar on his side like a red slash.

I shivered, too, as his naked body pressed to mine. His groin was even hotter than the rest of him, his slender organ silky and pulsing under my hand and against my cock as I pressed them together. He breathed so loudly, it was almost like sobs. The wetness from the tip of his cock coated my hand as I rubbed our shafts together.

It was his first time, I thought; and, maybe, his last time - wasn't it why he gave in? Because so little time was left and he almost despaired he would be able to leave here. His first time had to be special; he had to have everything.

I moved up, spreading my legs, sinking fingers in my anus. I practically healed, after the last time with Hannigan and others, just little soreness stayed. I worked, stretching myself, biting my lip. It was not going to be easy for Trowa to get in, using only spittle.

But there was nothing around here I could use - and I was afraid if I broke the moment, if I let him go - he could change his mind, could refuse. So, I'd have to do without lube.

He must've guessed what I was going to do as I moved because it almost looked like he was frightened. I had a grip on his cock, guided it between my thighs. The pressure built up; the stretching flashed a pang of pain through me.

I probably gave out a small sound because Trowa froze, his eyes open, intent on me.

"What happened?"

"Nothing... It just... would be easier with lube."

"Can we get it somewhere?"

"I think J might have something."

"Then let's get it."

I shook my head.

"No way I let you go. What if you have second thoughts?"

He laughed; it was not particularly merry laughter, rather nervous - but there was this breathless quality in it that made it the most erotic sound in the world.

He pushed me away a little.

"Go find it. I don't know what to look for. I'll be here."

I dashed to the cupboard where J kept his stuff. A tube of ointment had to do. In moments I was back there. Trowa was still in my bed; I was hyperventilating with relief.

He trembled under my hand as I lubed him, his face having a submissive, almost lost expression. His eyes went wide and his cock jerked as he watched how I put my fingers into me, stretching myself. I straddled him and guided his cock inside me.

There was some pain and I waited it out. Trowa's muscles were vibrating as he lay quietly under me. I reached and pushed his hair away from his face. How beautiful he was, with flush on his cheekbones, with his eyes darkened in arousal. There was a wild look in his eyes as he stared at me. 

"Oh God, Quatre..." he said. "Quatre, please..."

His words hit so hard I jerked - and he moaned in pleasure - and I steadied myself, not moving any more. I looked down at him ruthlessly.

"Trowa, listen to me."

"What... what?" His voice was breaking.

"I don't want you to die. I won't let you die. I know what we have to do. Doctor J will take the vaccine out of you and put it inside me. And then we'll have three more weeks to wait for a corridor."

His tossed his head from side to side on the pillow, his eyes half-closed. Was it a negation or just despair? I didn't know; I was not going to show mercy.

"Think about it. If you die, what good it will do for those who wait for the vaccine, for your Order? And with me carrying it, you'll be able to concentrate on your way back."

"You can't..." he whispered. "You're of the same age as I am."

"So what?" I shook him slightly. "So what?"

"I can't make you go through it."

Baka, baka...

"If you could - then I can, too. I'll be okay - and you'll... you'll fulfil your obligations in front of the Order."

I knew it had an effect, could see it in his face. I put my hands on his cheeks, made him look at me.

"You know what? I won't move until you say 'yes'. I won't fuckin' move."

I wanted him to understand I was serious - but his eyes were so wild I was not sure he could understand. Then he whispered, in a faltering, barely audible voice:

"Yes. Yes, Quatre, yes."

And I moved, and he cried out and I felt heat of his come inside me - and a few moments later I came as well.

To be continued

**__**

Hmm, I like Wufei. I really do. I don't know why he happens to be so... over-the-top :-) Thank you all for the most wonderful reviews and advice!!! You make me feel so happy. It's thanks to you I keep writing! Please let me know what you think. 


	9. Part 9

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 9

**__**

This part is rated NC-17 for consensual and non-consensual sex. Please don't read if it bothers you.

He should've stopped it; why didn't he? Treize pushed a strand of hair away from his eyes absently, shook his head. Should've stopped that comedy, that performance for his sake. He didn't buy it for a moment, knew so well that Wufei wouldn't ever do it with anyone else. Hell, the boy could barely stand having sex with Treize - in the only possible way they'd found by trial and error. How would Wufei bear anyone else to touch his body?

How could Wufei bear it - to be with another person in bed, separated just by the thin silk of the kimono - and then to kiss, or imitate kissing, mimic caresses, down to the most intimate ones? It must've been agony for him, Treize thought; agony Wufei had to endure it for his, Treize's, benefit. Treize didn't doubt it was over as soon as he was gone - but all those moments before it... He clenched his fists. Wufei had said Treize's love was killing him. But what was he doing to himself?

"You want to hurt me," Treize whispered, his voice lonely and forlorn in the empty corridor. "But you hurt yourself more."

There was hurt, though, as well - and, maybe, it was the reason why Treize hadn't said anything when meeting huge, full of distress eyes of the blond boy - just walked away in silence. He should've stopped it - even if not for Wufei, Wufei wouldn't appreciate it - then for Quatre, for the boy Wufei was using in his sick game.

But even though Treize understood everything, his heart was still wounded - and he couldn't be altruistic; couldn't think about anyone else. At least he hadn't lashed out in rage; hadn't let his face change, in fact - walked away as composedly as he'd come.

And couldn't find rest since then.

Anger boiled in him - against everyone: against Wufei because even on the peak of fury it still felt as if Treize's heart was tearing apart with pity to the boy; against Quatre because the blond kid was a participant in this travesty, even if unwilling one. Against the morph - the strange creature with human face and purple blood - the morph Treize hated and yet tried to defend, he didn't know why.

Zechs...

__

"Show him your weakness."

He, Treize, wasn't weak. He knew perfectly well who his enemy was, Wufei didn't dare to doubt it.

__

"...share your company with mon cher Zechs Merquise."

Treize heard his own laughter, the sound toneless, insincere even for his own ears. But a decision already crept into his mind, solidifying with every moment. If Wufei thought he should've gone to Zechs... well, that's what he'd do.

The corridors were empty; it seemed his men, exhausted with the storm, went off early. But as Treize walked down to the basement, he still thought what if there was someone with Zechs. What would he do then? Probably what he was doing so well all those days since they'd captured the morph - pretended that nothing happened.

It was quiet down there, however. Treize entered the code and walked in. The light flickered, and Treize narrowed his eyes against the dimness and irritating dust. There was much more sand there than upstairs - more than he expected; his feet were sucked in it almost ankle deep.

The morph lay on the floor, huddled in the corner, his long limbs drawn close under him as if he was cold. His hands were cuffed together and the chain went to a ring in the wall but at least he could keep his hands down. His hair was like a long veil covering the sand around him. The hair was dirty now, matted and sticky with blood and sweat - except a strand or two that still kept that silver shimmering quality about them.

His clothes were so ragged, they revealed more than hid - and Treize thought uncomfortably his people probably even didn't bother to remove them any more to fuck him. The man smelled. Morphs' excretions had a slightly different smell from humans' - and, unwillingly, Treize could distinguish both kinds in this reeking. Cold washed him at the thought: if his explicit words about giving the morph a mask were disregarded, then what a wide field for mistreatment his silence left. He hadn't mentioned the morph should've been allowed to use a toilet, or be fed, or his injuries taken care of.

Of course, morphs were fast healers, just as Wufei said. Breathing sand for thirty-six hours would kill any human. But the sand around Zechs' head was still spattered with blood and his breath was ragged, strained.

The morph didn't seem to react at the light - but when Treize stepped from foot to foot, he must've heard the screeching of the sand and moved, struggling to raise his face. Tangled strands of hair obscured it but even through this mess of long tresses Treize saw something that made him let out an involuntary sound and step closer towards the prisoner.

Zechs hadn't reacted to light because his eyes were swollen shut. Sandstorm could shred your lungs but it also ate into your eyes, irritating them unbearably. Treize suffered himself with it, knew how it felt - and felt unwanted compassion twitch in him. Compassion he shouldn't have felt, by any means.

He saw Zechs recoil from him as he walked closer - the man must've thought he was another one who came to take advantage of him. But there wasn't much where the morph could back away - just till pressing to the wall. His cuffed hands with narrow wrists and long fingers trembling.

He didn't make a sound - and in this silence Treize felt something so broken, so doomed - as if the morph knew nothing he could say would spare him. And yet - suddenly Treize realized it and frowned at the aberrance of this idea - there was something keenly sexual in this forced submissiveness, in complete helplessness of the chained creature in front of him.

He swallowed hard, already not sure what he felt more - anger against the morph or pity. He knelt and reached to the morph's face, pushed the hair away from it.

The broken jaw had healed; maybe, had healed more than once since then, Treize corrected himself. Bruises, no doubt savage, were fading on the morph's face and body. He'd probably be able to recover fully between sessions of abuse - if not for the sand clinging to his body, sand that irritated the skin agonizingly. There were long inflamed scabs on the morph's body, and Treize thought he must've scratched himself, trying to get rid of unbearable itch.

Zechs' blind face was turned to him, his swollen eyelids trembling - and his lips trembled as well. The morph was trying to swallow convulsively and probably couldn't, was too dehydrated. Treize hadn't seen any vessel for water around; another flash of anger pierced him.

It was not what he wanted for his people to do! He wanted purity for them, honorable hatred, wanted them to feel above their enemies. Wasn't it why he kept fighting the morphs even when his own government had rejected him - because he couldn't put up with abominable cruelty of the creatures? If his own people were as cruel - what right did they have to judge?

He let Zechs go, got up and walked out quickly. It took him a few minutes to fill a cup with water and return. The morph lay in the same position, his hair scattered. His breath was coming in short, excruciating gasps.

Treize lowered on his knees, hesitating for a moment what to do, then wrapped the morph's hair around his hand, making Zechs tilt up his face again. The morph flinched hugely when feeling the brink of cup against his lips. There was fear and suffering reflected on his face and Treize thought if he had been tormented like that before, offered water and then denied it.

No one should've been treated like this. No one should've been treated like this, he corrected himself, if you wanted to call yourself human. It was what he could never prove to Wufei...

But then Wufei had harder proves to every Treize's philosophizing. In one thing, Wufei was right: he, Treize, was just a watcher, had never suffered himself, even if all the suffering he'd seen hurt and enraged him so much. And, maybe, that was why he could feel sorry for the misfortunate creature - even knowing what Zechs' compatriots did to thousands people, what they did to Wufei...

Or, maybe, it was because Zechs' face was so un-morph-like? Those blue eyes... he couldn't see the color of his eyes now.

A quiet moan Zechs made returned him to reality - the first sound the morph gave out. Treize recalled about the cup, tilted it slightly to let the liquid seep into the morph's mouth.

Soft sobbing flew off the morph's lips as he drank. He was leaning against Treize's hand now, heavily, as Treize had to support him not to let the liquid spill. As the cup was empty, Zechs thrashed, reaching for more, struggling not to let the brink of the cup go.

"Shh, shh, there's no more," Treize whispered, surprisingly softly. Zechs' closed eyelids were fluttering wildly as he sought for more water; he probably didn't even hear what Treize said. Treize wanted to let him go, unwrap the hair from his hand. And at that moment Zechs strove against him, falling forward, against Treize's knees. 

He was probably just too weak - and Treize had nothing else to do but to catch him, support against his arm. Zechs' body trembled against him, hot and nearly naked. 

How long had it been since he'd been in such a close contact with anyone? Sex he had with Wufei - the intercourse without touching - apart from Wufei's cock in him and later, occasionally, Wufei's hand on his cock to bring him off... For too long, Treize thought. The feeling of closeness flooded him, amazing, irresistible. the craving was so strong that Treize felt helpless against it.

So close... to hold, to be held... this body against him, breathing, trembling, hot skin under his palms - and the hot breath nearly against his groin.

Arousal was blinding; Treize felt dizzy, disoriented - and yet the need building in him was so irrepressible he couldn't reason it away, couldn't fight it. He couldn't do nothing but to go with it.

He pushed Zechs' head away minutely, pulled his zipper down. He thought about saying something, making a threat - 'Bite me and you're dead' - but for some reason he didn't. There was something about the morph, some pliancy that made him know Zechs wouldn't try anything stupid. He forced his straining cock between the lips that opened docilely, almost eagerly.

He probably was grateful for the water, Treize thought - and it was one of his last coherent thoughts. All the rest was frenzied need and brutal slamming into the straining mouth, the morph's hot lips enveloped around his shaft.

It was crude and messy, nothing like the way Treize considered having sex had to be. The morph was making gagging, choking sounds as Treize's cock pushing in his throat. A trickle of saliva leaked from the corner of the morph's mouth. But contracting, tight muscles of his throat around Treize's shaft were bliss.

He buried both his hands in Zechs' long hair and pulled Zechs' closer, so close Treize was bottoming out of every thrust. And then all his body seemed to be shaken in a long convulsion, pleasure shooting from inside him and out, streaming into Zechs' mouth.

He drowned in the feeling of being enveloped in a hot tight mouth, squeezed in contracting tight passage of Zechs' throat. For a few moments nothing existed for him but the sensations of his body, the glowing pleasure of it. Then he heard agonized, choking sounds the morph made - and drew away.

Zechs slipped on the floor, shuddering, coughing excruciatingly. His mouth was half-opened and Treize saw his come leaking on the morph's chin, saw some of it coming from Zechs' nose. The morph writhed on the floor, catching the air desperately.

The sight was so hideous... was it him, Treize, who had done something so ugly? Zechs was disgusting, pathetic... And yet in the pained movements of the tormented creature, there was something that pierced Treize's heart with pity. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he reached for the morph's face, pushed blood- and come-smeared hair away from it and stroked Zechs' cheek pacifyingly.

For a little while Zechs continued to shiver - and then, incredibly, seemed to relax under the touch, almost lean into Treize's stroking palm. It shocked him so much he jerked his hand away. How could it be... how could he seek comfort with the same person who'd just raped him?

He, Treize Khushrenada, had just raped a prisoner. Wufei... Wufei would be delighted to know; it would make his revenge complete.

Wufei... if Treize hadn't known him so well, he would think the boy orchestrated it all. But of course it was Treize's own choice - and his own crime he'd perpetrated.

Zechs seemed to go quiet on the floor; sperm and blood stopped leaking from his nose. Treize shivered at the thought of his own fluids adding to the crust of dry excretions on the morph's body. He couldn't bear it.

"Get up," he whispered, pulling on Zechs' wrists. He didn't think that the morph could be dangerous with his hands free - or, rather, barely thought about it. The morph's hands fell listlessly when Treize ran the card opening the cuffs on them. Treize pulled him again, trying to make him get up - and Zechs slumped back, obviously exhausted beyond limit.

"What shall I do with you..." Treize muttered in sotto voce - and suddenly Zechs' head jerked. He realized he had been just whispering before then - and now Zechs heard his voice - and recognized it. There was a painful frown between Zechs' thin eyebrows as if he struggled to understand something. His voice was like a rustle of paper, hoarse and weak from fatigue, as he whispered:

"Treize Khushrenada."

"Yes, it's me," Treize said and braced the morph's arm around his shoulder. Zechs leaned over him, heavy and almost lax, his feet tracing the floor awkwardly, as Treize half-walked, half-carried him upstairs.

* * *

The morph sat crumpled on the bottom of the tub, leaning against the wall, as the water ran over his body. At first he'd caught the water with open mouth greedily but then had enough and went listless, still. His long hair, wet, had a sandy color now, clinging to Zechs' shoulders and chest. Treize took the shower from the hook and directed the jet at the morph's hair, gathered it in his hand. Sand still could be felt in it, so, Treize squeezed some shampoo in his hand and foamed the strands.

What surprised him most of all about what he was doing was that he didn't feel it as anything strange; his mind understood it was not right - to have the morph in his room, in his bathroom - to wash him. And yet there was a weird feeling of everything being perfectly natural.

Zechs didn't struggle, just took it pliantly as Treize washed him; later, as Treize finished with his hair and started with his body, the morph just moved minutely, allowing him the access to wash the sand from the scabs. He didn't say a word after acknowledging Treize's name - and while a part of Treize twitched, apprehending a question or a remark, a part of him reveled in this silence, in not necessity to explain anything.

He touched the morph's face carefully, cleansed his eyes. Swollen eyelids with sticky eyelashes opened at last, blue of them almost lost in the darker color of irritation. The look of Zechs' eyes was painful, tired, somewhat subdued. As if he expected nothing from Treize, was equally ready to pain and to mercy.

The morph was young, Treize realized suddenly; his face, quite beautiful on human standards, had that vulnerability of immaturity in his eyes and mouth. Then, when Treize had first seen him, in prison, Zechs looked so different - powerful and arrogant in his smart uniform and shiny helmet. But now, stripped of everything - his clothes, his mask, his dignity - he was just a young man, probably nineteen or twenty.

A man, a human... The face was deceptive, Treize reminded himself; even with this face Zechs Merquise was the same kind of murderer and torturer as other morphs. He shouldn't have forgotten about it.

"Now. Get out," he said.

Standing on the bathroom floor, dripping water, with a towel around his shoulders, the morph looked almost defenseless. His eyes blinked, seeing now, but still inflamed.

"Come on, wipe yourself."

It seemed Zechs needed to be ordered to do every small thing, was unsure what to do or afraid to be wrong. Treize rummaged in the shelf and picked a tiny plastic bottle. As he took Zechs' face, the morph resisted for the first time, panicked, making small sounds that were almost close to whimpers, his hands pushing against Treize's desperately.

"It's okay, it's okay," Treize said in a reasonable voice. "It's just eye drops, I use them myself."

Zechs' chest fluttered as he let Treize apply the drops.

"Come with me."

The morph ate sitting in Treize's bed. The sight almost mesmerized Treize. What was he doing? What other crazy thing was he going to do? His people wouldn't think anything bad, he was sure, they knew how he hated morphs. They'd think he wanted to get his rocks off, just preferred to do it in proper surroundings, an aesthete as he was. And wasn't it true?

Zechs had a delicate, almost dainty way of eating, as if he was not starving for days. His eyes were cast down, not looking up at Treize even once. The strands of silver-white hair were getting dry, turned lighter shade little by little.

He picked the plate and the cup from Zechs - and here the morph looked up at him, with a careful, serious gaze.

"Thank you." The voice sounded quiet, restrained. Zechs' long-fingered hands that lay on the edge of the blanket, clasped hard on it - neither pulling it up to cover himself more, nor pushing it away.

He expects me to fuck him now, Treize thought. Wasn't it fair? He'd given Zechs to drink and then fucked his mouth; now he'd washed him and let him eat - and these things had to be paid for - and somehow he knew the morph wouldn't refuse paying.

There was a distant thought in his mind, seemingly belonging to someone else, that Zechs didn't have to be submissive with him, could try to fight him. It was even dangerous - to be alone in the room with a being much faster and stronger than a human, even in the weakened state Zechs was; Treize's gun was in a table drawer, quite far away from the bed.

He just knew somehow Zechs wouldn't attack him. There was something about the morph - something lost; it was not just due to physical injuries - whatever else but it'd been just days, could the creature be so broken within such a short term? It was more like Zechs didn't seem to... what? motivated to struggle.

The thought suddenly made Treize breathless. He couldn't deny it any more: the idea of the man, completely submissive in his hands, was driving him crazy with arousal. This slender narrow body completely belonging to him, this smooth hair threading between his fingers, this soft pink mouth of a child, of an innocent, stretched around his cock...

A pang of desire was violent - an almost mindless feeling that seemed to leave nothing of his control intact. Treize wanted to possess this body, to use Zechs at his pleasure, roughly or playfully - just as he wanted it.

He'd never known this feeling before. In his love affairs, before Wufei, there was always so much dignity - enjoyment coming from the feeling of camaraderie rather than from passion. And with Wufei - during that period of time, too short, when Treize had already known he wanted to be with the boy for all his life, and before the disaster happened... He always dreamed how it would be between them for the first time, how gentle he would be, how they would treasure every moment of their intimacy.

It was never to happen - and his intimacy with Wufei was a farce, a perversion... through the fault of such creatures as Zechs Merquise, through their crime...

Treize's chest heaved; he didn't know what he wanted more - to hit Zechs or to kiss him. He raised his hand and saw an involuntary flinch of Zechs - and it weakened him suddenly, turned his anger into sorrow. He touched the morph's face, non-violently, carefully, ran his fingers over the high cheekbone. Zechs' eyes, already slightly less irritated, were wide, looking at him mesmerized.

A strand of silky hair was under his fingers and Treize pushed it away, and then leaned down and put his mouth on Zechs'. He felt a small trembling of the morph's body, instinctive movements, but soft lips opened for him without resistance, letting his tongue in.

Pleasure shot through his brain in a luminescent arc. Just a kiss... He had forgotten what a kiss could be, this melding of mouths, a tongue sliding against his. Treize gasped, pressing their mouths closer, drinking Zechs' taste, soft acceptance of Zechs' lips.

His stare was not quite clear as he backed away. Absentmindedly, his fingers kept caressing Zechs' temple, fingering a tress of smooth hair. He looked at the morph and met a strangely wild, as if uncomprehending gaze of dark-blue eyes. Zechs raised his long-fingered hand and touched his mouth carefully.

This gesture, this look broke something in Treize. He didn't reason any more. He leaned down again, kissing the hand, kissing the lips, feeling Zechs respond to him hastily, almost clumsily. Treize intertwined his fingers with Zechs', not feeling disgusted at their length, at this clear sign that the creature wasn't human, after all. Zechs raised his other hand tentatively, touched Treize's face - and, overwhelmed with strange gratitude, Treize turned his face, kissed the palm.

He stretched along Zechs' body, a blanket and Treize's clothes separating them - and Treize worked on these barriers, first pulling off his own clothes, then pulling the blanket away.

The morph shivered; his small pink nipples were hard and upright and his cock, heavy and lined with bluish veins, was hard, too. 

For a few moments Treize looked at it; morphs had bigger genitals than humans, he knew it - and Zechs was not different. He looked up at Zechs' face and saw a lost, guilty expression on it - as if the morph couldn't understand how it happened and expected to be punished.

"You're beautiful," Treize said.

A long shiver that went through the morph's body hardly could be caused by these simple words. Zechs' blue eyes looked at him, blinking, a kind of question frozen in them. Then the morph took Treize's hand and pressed to his face.

It was the strangest feeling he had; there was urgency in Treize's groin, the need of release, as soon as possible. And yet there was also some melting inside him that made him linger, made his fingers explore Zechs' face slowly, by touch. He touched the morph's throat and collarbones, caressed the smooth warm skin covered in fading bruises. Then he sighed and took one of Zechs' nipples in his mouth.

A sound broke from Zechs' lips, surprised, inarticulate one. Treize worried his nipple with his tongue and lips, gentle then hard, then gentle again. He heard Zechs started moaning, in long painful sounds - and wanted to cover his mouth but then thought it was nothing. If someone heard it, they'd thought he hurt the morph.

He missed it so much - he hadn't known it himself but now Treize realized it: he missed touching another body, with his hands and lips, missed bringing pleasure, applying his skills to make the other arch under him in passion. Missed these sounds, the taste of the other's skin on his tongue.

Zechs' hands, light and as if unsure - but more bold with every moment - moved over his back and neck, patting, pressing his head down to the morph's chest. Treize's hand moved down and Zechs spread his thighs for him obediently.

I can fuck him now, Treize thought. It'd hurt him, he must've been all sore down there - but Zechs would take it from him, Treize didn't doubt it. He felt an ache in his chest and shuddered, struggling with himself. He met Zechs' eyes and saw a strange, serious look that seemed especially vulnerable just in this seriousness. An expectant look. 

It was probably what made Treize's mind. He moved down suddenly and took Zechs' cock in his mouth.

It was big enough for making it uncomfortable, for taking some time for Treize to get accustomed to it. He heard a surprised, broken gasp Zechs made - and he slid down with his lips along the shaft as much as he could. The morph's precum was bitter-ish, faintly caustic on his tongue. Treize licked the shaft, traced the veins on it - and then went down again, taking Zechs' cock as deep as possible.

He wouldn't fuck Zechs; he knew there was a part of him that wanted to hurt the morph, to break him and to enjoy the complete power. But there was another part and Treize was going to go along with this one - and this part of him cherished the unexpected, self-abandoned response coming from Zechs. He didn't want to ruin it by hurting his lover... his partner.

He sucked on Zechs' cock and reached to his own shaft simultaneously, slid his hand along it. So, how different was it from pleasuring himself on the nights Wufei kept him away from his bedroom? But it was different, Treize just couldn't explain how. It was different - to feel the other's body shudder in unison with his in approaching orgasm, to hear Zechs' desperate, sobbing moans as the morph's cock pushed into his mouth.

Treize felt an orgasm quake himself, his come spurt on his fingers, when Zechs' sperm filled his mouth, leaked into his throat, bitter and astringent. The morph made some hitching breaths, his body trembling. Treize looked up at him, meeting widened blue eyes through tangled strands of white hair.

"Faster," the morph whispered. "Don't swallow it. You have to wash it out."

Do you think I don't know it? The thought was so bitter and ironic that Treize couldn't help chuckling. And yet it surprised him somehow that the morph decided it was necessary to warn him.

He walked off to the bathroom; he did swallow some of it, couldn't help it - and now had to use his two fingers to throw up. A romantic conclusion for the event, he thought sarcastically, rinsing his mouth - but it was cold sarcasm, not what he really felt.

His real feeling - and suddenly he felt compelled to admit it - for a moment without reasoning, without explaining anything and feeling guilt - was that it was worth it. He didn't regret anything.

***********************************************************

Everyone seemed to be busy except him. As if since he'd given his consent to Quatre, things were taken from Trowa's hands. It was not that he couldn't take his word back, Trowa mused, looking at the shadows of nettings on the ceiling above him, once everything was over; but no, he couldn't, of course. He needed Quatre's help to finish his task; one more day and it would be too late, he wouldn't be able to run a flyer even if a corridor opened. But he also knew somehow that Quatre didn't expect him to go back on his word, believed him implicitly when Trowa said his 'yes'.

It was absurd - but he felt he couldn't disappoint Quatre.

You'd better disappoint him than let him suffer, he thought harshly - but then again, what other possibility was there? Having Quatre carry the vaccine would give them three more weeks.

Doctor J and Wataru prepared instruments while Quatre sat on his bed cross-legged, chatting with the doctor.

Treize stopped by a little while ago and, using a moment when everyone was away, Trowa said to him:

"There was nothing between Quatre and Wufei."

He was afraid Treize could keep a grudge against Quatre; of course, he didn't think Treize would act out of jealousy - but Trowa felt bothered and strangely discontent with the thought that Treize might've thought badly about Quatre.

Despite his apprehension, there was no distrust at Treize's face. His eyes seemed sad and somehow distant, looking at something that was not here at all.

"I almost wish there had been," he said incomprehensibly.

At last J and Wataru seemed ready and Quatre flopped down on his bed, his shirt in a heap on the floor. Trowa saw a bright grin on the boy's face as Quatre answered at J's question:

"Ready for your flu marathon?"

A moment later Quatre turned to him, the same huge smile making his face all lit up, radiant. His eyes seemed almost aquamarine blue when he smiled like this, Trowa thought. He hadn't seen Quatre like that before... so easy, so comfortable. As if he was happy to do what he was going to do.

"Don't worry," J kept muttering while preparing a syringe. "It'll be just a small prick and then you'll feel nothing there."

Wataru was doing the same with Trowa. Anaesthetic that Wataru used was probably different from the one Oatta had used - but the effect was the same: he stopped feeling his left side, down from the midriff.

"Cold," Quatre said, giggling.

He looked at Trowa, he couldn't see the scalpel in J's hand - but Trowa could see it all right. He bit his lip not to cry out, not to stop it all. He had to do it... for Raymond, for all others who died; he, Trowa, owed it to them.

But why was Quatre doing it? Why? Trowa almost whispered it, looking at the boy's big-eyed face, the pale mouth slightly open in a shadow of smile. Quatre was getting nothing out of it; and even the fate of the Northern Region - what was it for him?

He saw Quatre shiver suddenly - and then a thin arm reached to him, and Trowa clasped his hand on the small cold fingers. It didn't hurt but he felt his skin separated and Wataru's fingers fish in the slash for the capsule.

He didn't want to see it; he pointedly looked nowhere but at Quatre, submerged in the blueness of the boy's eyes.

Please don't look away, he begged silently. He didn't know why it was important - but it was; he wouldn't be able to bear to look anywhere else. And Quatre's eyes never left his, as Quatre's hand kept holding on his all the time.

He saw Quatre wrinkle his nose, not in pain but in unusual sensation, when Doctor J placed the capsule into his body. With his peripheral sight Trowa could see blood that J dabbed from Quatre's skin - and then a curved needle with colorless thread.

And then darkness flooded over him and it felt like someone had switched off the light - and he stopped seeing Quatre's face and regretted it at the last moment.

When he came round, the doctors were gone. He lay in his bed, covered to the waist with a sheet, and there was a tight bandage going around his ribcage and belly.

And he didn't feel sick. It was almost incredible; for those weeks the sensation of stuffed, inflamed nasopharynx and sore throat became almost habitual - almost as if it was his normal state, a natural one. But now it was easy to breathe... and he was warm. Not cold or hot but delightfully, perfectly warm.

He raised his head, enjoying the feeling of lightness, and saw Quatre sitting on his bed. The boy's shirt was off and there was the same kind of bandage going around Quatre's chest.

Quatre smiled, with a slow, radiant smile, looking at him.

"Are you all right?"

The boy's voice still wasn't hoarse, so, Trowa realized it must've been less than three hours passed. Quatre pulled on his blond bangs, his eyes shining.

"Never been better," Trowa said.

"Good. Me too."

It's temporary, Trowa wanted to say. Quatre slid down on the floor and stepped to Trowa's bed. He must've exaggerated, saying he'd never felt better, because he swayed and started falling over Trowa awkwardly. Trowa caught him and held, looking in the shiny blue eyes just in inches from his face.

Everything else was easy - as if it was supposed to be this way: Trowa's lips on Quatre's, the boy's soft face cupped in his hands, Quatre's thin body stretched along his, their chests separated by layers of gauze. He sucked on the boy's lower lip, so sweet and soft, and felt Quatre's hands playing with his nipples as Trowa's own hands roamed over the boy's body, exploring its thinness, narrow lines and smooth skin.

He felt Quatre's hand on his cock - and opened immediately, eagerly, looking in the blue eyes with spirals of light in them.

"Do it, please. I want you to..."

Quatre looked at him for a moment, then nodded, not asking anything - found by touch a tube of the ointment in the nightstand between them. Trowa shivered and clenched, feeling a slick finger move inside him. But there was no pain and Quatre kept smiling and stroking his hair - and then Trowa felt second finger added, stretching him.

He held on the sheet, scared like he hadn't been scared even when taking the vaccine from Oatta - and yet resolute. Quatre kissed him, softly, on his lips, and the raised Trowa's legs - and Trowa felt something pushing inside him.

There was a brief flash of pain but not much, and Quatre waited, stroking his thighs, looking at him. Then he moved, frowning, moved again - and Trowa gasped and stared with an unfamiliar sensation. Quatre smiled, thrusting again, causing the flare of pleasure shoot through Trowa once more. Trowa clasped the sheet in his hands, unsure of anything any more, feeling his body like something new and amazing for him.

"Pretty baby," Quatre said. "You're so tight."

The words were silly but said by Quatre, in the gentle, childish voice of his, they suddenly made Trowa flush and feel warmth flood him as his cock pulsed with pleasure.

He reached his hands and took Quatre's face in them and looked at the boy as Quatre kept thrusting, and warm waves spread through Trowa's body from his movements.

"Prince," Trowa whispered so quietly he didn't know if Quatre heard him. "My prince."

Then he was coming, and Quatre thrust a few more times into him and then went still - and then slid down next to Trowa, his arm across Trowa's chest. Trowa hugged him and pulled closer, put the blond head on his shoulder, submerged in Quatre's smell and weight and feeling of smooth skin against his.

He closed his eyes and sleep overcame him - and when Trowa woke up again, Quatre was already burning and delirious, tossing and turning in the ring of Trowa's arms.

To be continued

**__**

You don't think everything is going to be well and fine now, do you? :-) Because I have a few more chapters in store, you know :-) Lots of thanks and hugs for those wonderful people who write wonderful reviews oh ff.net! Please keep C&C! Pretty please!!!


	10. Part 10

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 10

**__**

This part contains implications of abuse that might squick you. Read at your own risk. 

It wouldn't happen ever again. 

Treize didn't need to remind it to himself - because he knew it so well; it was a fact, an ultimate reality. Yet he repeated these words as if afraid to forget. It wouldn't happen again... The night he'd spent with the morph was madness and mistake - madness that filled his body with forgotten, almost unfamiliar lightness, made excitement sing through his blood. But it was all over; better not to think about it.

In silence of his office he leaned back on the chair, looking nowhere, seeing just the blur of the computer screen in front of him. His fingers moved lightly, unconsciously, in a stroking, caressing gesture - as if it was not the air he felt but softness of skin, and smooth long hair, and vibration of a responsive body under his touch.

Nothing changed. Neither his hatred to morphs, nor his helpless love to Wufei... nor the anguish these two feelings brought him. With Zechs it had been just... sex, nothing more. Treize had given in to the urges of his body and lost control. He wouldn't allow it again. 

And if he tried very hard, he would possibly be able to forget that there had been anything at all, that night they spent together, those moments when he felt so good... felt almost happy.

Maybe, in some other life, in some other world, it all could be different; he and Zechs could be allies - comrades... lovers?.. They would talk, would trust each other... and there wouldn't be such burning feeling of guilt...

Guilt both for what he'd done to Zechs and what he'd done to Wufei. 

__

"I almost wish they had..." 

Treize smiled wryly thinking about the words he'd said to Trowa Barton. It was hardly true: how could he want anyone else to be with Wufei? And it was not even that he looked for a justification. He wouldn't feel less like a traitor anyway.

He should've talked to Wufei, Treize thought; should've tried to explain and accept everything Wufei would say. But Treize had never done it, couldn't work up enough courage. Perhaps Wufei was right: he was weak.

He reached for the glass blindly, filled it. A knock on the door was cautious, as if a person didn't insist on it being heard or even would rather it not to be heard. Treize put the glass away.

"Come in."

The man was young, a little more than a boy, with pale anxious face and unsettled look in his widened eyes.

"Sir..."

"What happened, Jackson?"

"Sir... I don't know... It's probably not my business but... but I think it goes too far..." He stalled, then took a deep breath and finished. "Maybe, you can go take a look."

"At what?"

"Lieutenant Chang... he's with the prisoner."

"I see."

Treize was already on his feet, saying that. He knew at once what Jackson meant... oh God, he knew it. He felt his hands start trembling.

"Thank you, Jackson." 

He passed the young man, walked swiftly along the corridor. Anger made his movements sharp, edgy. Wufei, damn you, what are you up to again? But Treize knew the answer, didn't he? Up to nothing good. After that night, when Treize had given the orders not to beat or rape the captive any more, Wufei didn't oppose it, didn't react in any way, just took it with his usual gloomy attitude. Did Treize let himself be deceived?

He rushed down the stairs; heat and cold flooded him alternately. He should've been more wary about Wufei, shouldn't have taken it for granted that the boy would suppress his hatred...

The sounds caught on him on the steps: not screams - but stifled moans, probably muffled into a gag - and sounding even more harrowing because of that. Shocked into motionless for a moment, Treize touched the wall to prevent himself from swaying. His heart thudded in agonizing tempo. A voice came:

"Here, hold him tighter. Look, he's thrashing again. Now cauterize it."

Smell of burning flesh choked him, made him nauseous. Treize made a few fast steps, entering the room. His fists were clenched tight enough to wound the flesh of his palms - enough to let him muster at least an imitation of self-control.

But the time he came in, the sounds almost stopped. There were two other men in the room, apart from Zechs and Wufei - the two whom Treize knew as the biggest haters of morphs. No wonder Wufei managed to secure their assistance, he thought bitterly. They looked at him, fear mixed with stubbornness in their eyes. He felt dizzy with effort not to let out his anger.

Wufei stood at Zechs' chair, looking at Treize, his face somewhat thoughtful as he bit his lip absently. He didn't seem to look scared, and it didn't surprise Treize; then he put on the table what he'd held in his hands - a small gas burner.

There was blood coating Wufei's hands - purple blood - and blood was everywhere, on the floor, on the table; its sweet metallic tang made the air difficult to breathe. Zechs' hands were covered in blood as well. 

Zechs was tied to the chair, his arms fastened to the elbow-rests tightly. There was something wrong with his hands, Treize thought, but he couldn't figure out what, refused to figure out. He looked at Zechs' face instead, met widened in pain and terror black-blue eyes looking at him with open, undisguised plea. There was a stripe of adhesive tape covering Zechs' mouth and the breaths he tried to take were hitching, broken.

Treize stepped towards him, tore the tape off - and the morph gasped greedily, blood and bile leaking from his mouth. He was shivering like a sick animal, Treize thought. He still couldn't make himself look at Zechs' hands, even almost knowing what he'd see: could guess it after noticing the wire-cutter on the table.

He looked at his men again, finally able to take control over his voice.

"You two. Go to the brig. I'll investigate it later."

"You can't punish them, they didn't break your orders." Wufei's voice was almost sweet. The boy stood leaning against the table, his hand almost touching a shiny puddle of blood there. Well, he couldn't be more smeared with blood, could he, Treize thought.

"Didn't they?"

"As far as I understand, you said not to 'beat or rape the prisoner'. It's your very words, Captain. Of course, you can say that I knew what you meant." Wufei shrugged. "Maybe, I did. But the interpretation of your order belonged to me. You shouldn't have made me your second in command, you know. I told them what to do - and they had to obey."

There was complete fearlessness on Wufei's face - to what Treize could do to him, to any punishment that could follow. The challenge was there: you can't punish them unless you punish me; and will you punish me - over an enemy, over a morph?

Treize felt pain slamming through him, spreading through his chest like fire. He looked away, biting his lip, taking control over himself. As he spoke again, his voice was flat:

"Downey, Carter, you can go."

They walked out, without a word. It took a few seconds - and it was about as long as Treize could bear, before the words broke from him, almost breathless:

"What have you done?"

"What?" Wufei repeated, his head tilted awry almost slyly, then made a step towards Zechs. The morph was limp on the chair, his hair matted with blood and hiding his face - but as Wufei neared to him, he jerked suddenly, in panic. His chest fluttered oddly, gasps coming through his clenched teeth. "Nothing much. I thought since you find him so attractive, why not to make him even more human-like? You'll enjoy fucking him even more then."

Wufei grabbed Zechs' hand, twisted it up - apparently causing the morph keen pain because Zechs shrieked in a broken, bird-like voice. And now Treize couldn't deny any more what he saw - Zechs' fingers that looked too short; normal for a human but one phalanx too short for a morph - the tips burnt and still bleeding, with whiteness of bone under the charred skin.

"Don't touch him!" Treize hissed. Wufei gave him a strange, somewhat lost gaze. His eyes were glazed, as if he was drugged. Zechs' mutilated hand fell from Wufei's fingers.

Treize didn't know what he wanted to do. To hit Wufei? His anger demanded some outlet but at the same time was so strong that Treize didn't know what would quench it.

"Go on, hit me," Wufei whispered. His eyes focused, obsidian-dark, narrowed into slits. "Can't you do even that? Do something, Treize. Hit me - or him! You're so afraid... of staining your hands!"

"And that's why you stained yours?" he said hoarsely.

He saw a muscle on Wufei's cheek twitch; Wufei looked down at his hands where blood already became thick, gluey. He had a weird expression as if he was not sure what he saw. Then he looked up at Treize again and his voice was Wufei's best cold tone - haughty, almost patronizing.

"It's a war, mon Captain. And he's our enemy. Am I wrong that I hate the enemy, that I pay him with his own coin?"

The last of Wufei's words, the ones that implied so much, made Treize shiver. 

"It was not him," he said awkwardly. "It was not him to blame for what happened to you..."

"Oh yes," Wufei smiled pleasantly. "*You* can make the difference between morphs. Sorry, I can't."

It had a strange effect on Treize suddenly. He felt sober, as if waking up from a dream. Pain was still tearing him but at the same time he knew completely clearly what he had to do.

He took a deep breath of the air poisoned with the smell of blood and burnt flesh.

"You don't hate him, Wufei, do you? Whom you really hate - it's me."

He saw a frown between Wufei's thin eyebrows. The boy looked at him questioningly, and Treize felt almost elated at being able to reach him, to say something that confused Wufei.

"It's really my fault that it happened to you, right?" he continued. "If you hadn't been at my side, they wouldn't have used you to get to me. If I had agreed to their terms, it wouldn't have been so bad. I failed you. You have the right to hate me."

He saw a nervous movement Wufei made.

"I don't hate you, we talked about it before..."

Treize didn't let him finish.

"That's right," he said. "I understand, Wufei. I just don't want you to... punish the one who isn't to blame. Punish me because it's my fault."

He pulled his gun out and reached it out to Wufei, handle first. His gaze was so insistent that the boy didn't risk to disobey - or was too bewildered for that. The cold weight of the gun slipped from Treize's hand to his.

"Shoot me," Treize said. "Finish it all - for both of us."

At this moment, he was ready to die. Or, rather, he thought that if there was a risk of dying, then it was okay - he didn't want his life like that. If his boy really hated him so much - Treize didn't want to live with it.

The gun trembled in Wufei's hands - as if it was too for him. Treize leaned against the wall tiredly. He felt so worn out; his heart was split between those two people whom he'd pulled to himself and wronged: the blond morph, tied to the chair and bleeding, and the darkly beautiful boy with desperate eyes.

Wufei looked at him - and for once there was no mockery or animosity in his eyes - but such stark pain that Treize couldn't bear it, closed his eyes.

He opened them again almost immediately - but the gun wasn't in Wufei's hands any more, hit the floor with a heavy sound - and Wufei himself slid down on his knees, hands pressed to sand.

"I'm sorry!" The voice had nothing in common with Wufei's usual cold one - but was high, almost childish, wrecked with pain. Wufei's forehead touched the floor; his fingernails dug in the sand as if he had to struggle not to slip down. He trembled so violently his teeth chattered. "I'm sorry, Treize, please forgive me!"

For a moment Treize was taken aback. The change that happened to his boy was so abrupt, so shocking. And the knowledge that he was the one who'd caused it made him clench in shame. Wufei's words came out broken, disjointed.

"I'm bad, I know... I got on your nerves... I'm sorry! Please don't leave me! Please do whatever you want to me - just don't leave me. I can't live without you, Treize, I'll die without you, please don't reject me..."

"Wufei..." 

I'll never reject you, Treize wanted to say, I wasn't going to leave you - but his throat was stifled, he couldn't talk. He cast a dazed glance around, saw Zechs' pale face and pain-widened eyes - and looked away.

"I know I was a prick," Wufei continued in a trembling voice. A begging, apologetic smile curved his lips and didn't stay there as despair filled his voice again. "Always turned you away, didn't let you touch me. I know it was wrong - but I can make it up for you. I'll make it good for you!"

His blood-smeared hands reached to the buttons of the jacket, undid them one by one. There was an expression of total absorption on Wufei's face - and Treize looked at him mesmerized, unable to move even though he knew he had to. Wufei's fingers moved down along the row of the buttons. 

He managed to break his stupor at last, rushed towards Wufei, caught the boy's hands and drew them away. A patch of Wufei's skin, marked with violet scars, flickered in front of his eyes as he covered Wufei hastily, words flying from his lips:

"No, don't, don't, what are you doing, you don't have to do it..."

He felt sick with shame for his own cruelty, for what he'd done to the boy, what he'd made happen. Wufei struggled against him blindly; his trembling turned into near-convulsions - and then his hands clenched on Treize's jacket, pulling him closer.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, I'm here," he whispered, patting Wufei's back, feeling steel-hard muscles under his palm. Hot thin arms held onto him with desperate strength, almost hurting him. "I'll always be with you," he said.

"Don't leave me." The voice was so childish that, closing his eyes, Treize could imagine it was that other Wufei he held in his arms, Wufei as he'd been three years ago, before everything happened. He felt something hot and wet falling on his neck where Wufei's face was pressed - and he knew what it was. The feeling of Wufei's tears against his skin made him shiver, made his eyes sting.

He got up, cradling the thin body in his arms. Wufei was so light Treize barely felt his weight. Wufei clung to him desperately but the truth was Treize wasn't letting him go; for anything. He picked up the gun from the floor and walked to the door, casting a short glance back, at Zechs.

He would send one of the doctors to take care of the morph; there was nothing else he could really do for Zechs.

***********************************************************

"There will be a corridor in ten hours," Treize said. His pale hand touched sand-littered glass of the window. "We'll be getting food and weapons - and you'll be able to leave the planet. At least I hope it'll work." 

There was that special softness in Treize's movements that appeared there after a glass or two of wine. But his voice sounded tired and his eyes had an almost haunted expression in them. Trowa wondered if it was because of all these days when the military forces both of the Union and Marotania held the planet in the ring.

"Can you pilot F-621?"

"I trained on F-610," Trowa said. "I don't think it's much different."

"Good. You'll have fourteen minutes to get through the siege. It's not much but it's possible."

"It'll be enough," Trowa said. He didn't doubt it would; he just didn't have another chance.

It'd been six days since Quatre had taken the vaccine from him - and Trowa's own healthiness still seemed unusual, almost unnatural. He couldn't forget he could be well only because Quatre was ill now.

Quatre got it bad; for Trowa, the periods of fever had alternated with spells when he felt almost all right - but Quatre's temperature kept too high almost all the time, despite J's efforts to put it down. The boy was either delirious or too weak to talk and as Trowa looked at him, he couldn't help thinking he shouldn't have agreed to Quatre's offer.

But how could he not have agreed? The timing was such that without Quatre the vaccine would be lost by now... and Trowa himself would be dead, too. It was Quatre who made it possible to wait for the corridor.

And the only thing Trowa could do was to watch him suffering; and to bring the mission to the end, of course.

It'll be enough, Trowa repeated to himself.

"But you give me F-621, don't you?" The thought struck him. "How will I be able to return it?"

He saw Treize shake his head absently; the distant look in his eyes never changed.

"The flyer is dispensable. It'll mean much more for me if you succeed with the vaccine," he said quietly.

"The Order won't forget it." It felt somehow not right to say that but Trowa knew he was acting on behalf of the Order now, represented the Misques - so, there were things he had to say. "Is there a possible way we can pay you up for it?"

He waited for the answer uncomfortably; Treize didn't do it for money - maybe, didn't think about it at all. Then Treize shrugged, and Trowa sighed quietly with relief.

"If the Order insists. You can transfer money to the War Orphan Fund or something like that. It'll be a good enough payment."

"All right," Trowa said.

"Are you going to Nevis?" Treize asked.

Trowa had thought about it; but it would take too much time - would almost put Quatre at risk. He shook his head.

"We have a branch office on Adrianopolis. It has all the authority to handle things - so, I guess we'll go there."

"I have a request for you." Suddenly Treize turned to him, sharp blue eyes staring from the pale face. "A personal one."

"I'll do whatever I can, sir."

Treize raised his hand, as if stopping him from giving a promise he might want not to fulfil.

"I want you to take the morph with you."

Trowa bit the inside of his lip just in time not to let an unnecessary question to slip off. He heard very well what Treize said; he just couldn't believe it.

"I want you to take Zechs Merquise with you. Let him go on Adrianopolis or in some other place, at your choice. Morphs have consulates almost everywhere, so, he will be able to return to Marotania safely."

"You want to let him go?" He wasn't sure what he felt. He'd never asked about Zechs, just as decided - for all those days he'd spent in the camp. But now memories flooded with new intensity. It took Trowa a few moments until another thought came to his mind. "He was working for you, wasn't he?"

But no, it didn't make sense. If Zechs were a collaborator, Treize wouldn't let him go, wouldn't endanger him revealing his status. And could really Zechs work for the insurrectionists? Trowa recalled broken lines of Misques' bodies littering the floor in the hangar of the prison station. It wasn't Zechs who'd given the order but...

"No," Treize shook his head. "He doesn't work for me."

He stayed silent after that but Trowa didn't quite notice it, overwhelmed with his own thoughts. He'd been so frightened of Zechs - then, in prison... He hadn't admitted it before but he knew it for sure now; he had been afraid of Zechs - and his own confusion had been his worst enemy. He didn't have a reason to fear Zechs any more...

"You want explanations, don't you?" Treize asked. Trowa shook his head, he didn't mean it like that, but Treize didn't notice his negation. "I can't kill him. And I can't let him stay here because someone will kill him."

There was bitterness and challenge in Treize's voice - as if he expected Trowa to argue. Did he think Trowa wanted Zechs dead? 

It was not so; for the first time Trowa let himself think openly about things he considered safer not to recall - all those times when Zechs had come to rescue him, their meeting at the shuttle bay when Zechs had stopped him... and got captured. Trowa suddenly felt guilt overcome him, at never finding out what Zechs' destiny was. Surely Trowa hardly could've influenced it...

"He's our enemy, of course," Treize continued and Trowa wondered whether it was him Treize tried to prove it. "But there're things... I can't let him suffer more than he already did. It just isn't fair."

Trowa felt heat flood him; Treize's words resounded in his ears with their uncompromising meaning. But surely he had known it before - that there could be nothing good happening to Zechs in captivity? Could he willingly avoid this thought so completely?

"I can't insist, Trowa, I understand how you must be feeling about morphs. So, if you say 'no', I don't..."

"I'll take him with me, sir," Trowa said with numb lips. "It's not a problem, I'll take him."

Zechs saved my life and I never even...

"You don't need to worry," Treize went on but it seemed there was a burden removed from his shoulders. "We'll take all security measures to make him of no risk for you. You'll just leave him on some planet, where it's convenient for you."

"Yes."

"Thank you," Treize said seriously, with too much intensity, and Trowa felt such shame and anger against himself that he couldn't answer. Then he regained self-control.

"It's me who must thank you, sir."

* * *

People scurried about the hangar in preparation to meet the cargo ship once the corridor was open. But there, around him and Quatre, was a small island of quietness. The pointed shape of the flyer cast a long shadow over them. Treize's face looked sad and wan this way, his cool blue eyes darkened to thunderstorm grey.

"He's already there," Treize said in a low voice. "The code is 542, the magnet card is on the code panel. He's secured, you don't need to worry about him."

Trowa nodded; for a moment Treize's stare was so openly vulnerable that Trowa felt almost painful sympathy towards him. It was so unlike Treize, unlike his usual confidence. He seemed so lost now - as if treading shaky ground. And somehow, Trowa felt much the same at the moment, even though with a different reason. He tried not to think but couldn't quite muster it. The future made him feel unsure.

On that night when he'd responded to Quatre's kisses, he made his choice - and he was ready to take responsibility for it. And yet now he was going back to the Order. This thought should've made Trowa happy - and in a way it did. But in a way, it made him so frightened that sometimes he felt choking. There was no other way, of course. Returning to Misques meant that Quatre would be able to get rid of the vaccine, would be well again. But it also meant he would lose Quatre.

There still were a few days till then - four or five, depending on how long the way to Adrianopolis took, and Trowa hid behind this thought faintheartedly.

He looked at Quatre; the stubborn boy refused to go to bed and now stood huddling, looking like a sparrow with his tousled hair and darkened, dazed eyes.

"Ten minutes," someone said. Trowa looked at Treize and Doctor J and sudden understanding that he was really leaving descended on him. His heart clenched painfully; it must've been sorrow, even though Trowa had never felt like this before, about a place or people. His loyalties always lay with his Order, the rest of the world seeming insignificant, transient.

He saw Quatre suddenly fling himself at J, the boy's thin arms clasped around the man. The doc looked quite baffled for a moment and then his metal hand patted over Quatre's back. Trowa felt the doctor's gaze on himself, recalled their conversation a few hours ago - and J's answer when Trowa finally had asked him the question that kept hovering in his mind insistently:

"Why does Quatre do it for me?"

He probably knew the answer but he wanted a confirmation.

"Because he doesn't want you to leave him, you baka," J said and it wasn't what Trowa expected - but it was an answer good enough.

He wished suddenly he had the same openness in demonstrating his feelings as Quatre had; it never stopped surprising him that the boy could be so eager in getting attached, after everything he'd bee through. Trowa couldn't; only with Quatre he could be different... Quatre made him different.

"Seven minutes."

He reached out his hand to Treize and felt a firm handshake - and then turned to Quatre, called a little harshly:

"Go to the flyer. Now!"

The place in the pilot cabin was adjusted for him, the helmet ready. He put it on, touched the buttons. The voice sounded in the earphone:

"Two minutes."

Would he ever see any of these people again? Would he ever see Treize? These two weeks on the planet had changed so much in him - he never thought it could be like this.

"Four. Three. Two. One. Go," the voice said.

He pushed the lever and the flyer started.

* * *

It took him twelve minutes to pass through the corridor. It made the overload a bit harsh but Trowa decided that it was worth it. Everything went quite smoothly after first difficult minutes; piloting through empty regions was easy. Trowa spent a couple of hours, straightening the data and then left the flyer to auto-pilot.

Quatre was curled in a tight ball under the blanket and Trowa tucked it around him, couldn't resist brushing the fair strands away from the boy's face. Quatre moved sleepily, his small hand catching Trowa's, pressing it to his soft hot cheek.

"Stay with me," he mumbled.

"I just need to do a few things first," Trowa said smiling.

It was true, there were things he had to do - to check if everything was functioning all right. And there was another thing that he supposed had to be done but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. He knew he would do it, so, there was no reason to dwell on it - but somehow this reasoning didn't quite work. He was in front of the locked door finally, entered the code and came in.

The truth was Trowa didn't quite know what it was he expected to see; surprisingly so, taking into account the time he'd spent thinking about it. He remembered the helmet, the hated dark-grey uniform, long strands of blond hair... The hair was the same; as the man raised his face to look at him, Trowa recognized the tangle of white tresses. 

His mind told him it was Zechs Merquise - Zechs whom he'd been so bitterly afraid for so long; but Trowa almost couldn't believe it.

Just a man... A blond, very young man with pale face and huge blue eyes surrounded with shadows. He looked at Trowa over his arm; his wrists were chained to a bar going slightly above his head. And when Trowa slid his gaze over the man's hands, he felt his heart sink, a gasp breaking from his lips. Zechs' fingers were mutilated - the scars on their tips fresh, barely healing, skin blue and swollen. The sight was so ugly, so hideous that Trowa couldn't look at it - and yet couldn't look away as well, couldn't think about anything else.

"Ah, Trowa Barton." The voice was familiar, velvety smooth, with a note of mockery in it. The voice Trowa recognized. "Nice to meet you."

There was something hollow in these words, despite their deliberate lightness - and Zechs' chuckle sounded broken, or so it seemed. Trowa made an effort to look away from the terrible hands, to look at Zechs' face.

"It's what you told me about... that you look like human."

The words were meaningless, and Trowa expected Zechs to scold him for them - but blue eyes just looked at him over the chained arms with strange attention.

That's what Treize meant under taking all security measures, Trowa thought - to chain him like this...

"I see you aren't sick any more," Zechs said. "It's great, isn't it? How did it happen? Did you get used to whatever you were carrying - or did you lose it?"

Trowa bit his lip, hesitating whether to answer; Zechs had figured out this much by himself... and anyway, now it didn't matter whether morphs knew about the vaccine or not. By the time Zechs could contact his people, the vaccine would be safe with Misques.

"Another... another person carries it," he said.

"Another person..." There was a brief smile flickering on Zechs' lips. His mouth had been split, Trowa noticed; the cuts almost healed but the lips were dry and cracked, as if in thirst. "You say it in such way... as if it's someone important for you."

A brief flash of anger pierced Trowa; Zechs always tried to get into his mind, didn't he? Hadn't changed in this... always understood Trowa effortlessly. And why did Zechs care, anyway? He must've been in trouble bad enough not to wonder about Trowa...

"What's with your hands?" Trowa asked in a voice that sounded too small, despite his intention. He saw Zechs' mouth twitch painfully and there was a small pause before the morph answered, his voice perfectly unconcerned:

"Nothing. An accident. My own fault, actually."

These words triggered something in Trowa, making shame and distress flood him. How could it happen? How could he let it happen? Could he have prevented it if he hadn't played his cowardly game of hiding from his fears? Zechs had never let anything happen to him in prison, always came to rescue him at the last moment.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought; it didn't work. He knew he'd been wrong, had been a coward - and if something happened to Zechs, it was his, Trowa's, fault as much as the fault of those who had done it. He clenched his fists, gathering strength to say it.

"I'm sorry, Zechs."

"What for?"

"For... ditching you."

He expected sarcastic laughter but Zechs didn't laugh; there was a strange concentrated expression in the morph's eyes that made him look younger and somehow more vulnerable - as if he doubted whether Trowa ridiculed him.

"It's nothing," Zechs said finally.

Nothing... too many things were nothing for him any more - or seemed so. It made Trowa feel so uncomfortable for some reason that he winced - and felt Zechs' gaze on himself. The blue eyes were attentive, almost searching.

"You've changed," Zechs said. Trowa frowned and shrugged, not knowing how to react at it. After a small pause, Zechs continued, his voice strangely soft. "Something... unfroze in you."

Trowa wanted to ask what it was supposed to mean but knew there was something true in Zechs' words; a part of him - a part he didn't ever know about before - seemed to melt... and sometimes it hurt.

"Is it because of that... another person of yours?" Zechs asked. Trowa pressed his lips; he wasn't going to answer. "Is it him or her?"

"Him," Trowa whispered. The thought of Quatre curled in bed, his soft hair tangled and matted, made his voice sound hoarse.

"So, he was your first..." Zechs said thoughtfully. "I hoped... you know... that I would be. But it didn't happen like that."

It made him recall; all Zechs' threats and obnoxious words, his touches that Trowa had feared so much and yet, deep in his heart, found almost irresistible - and feared even more because of it. He recalled that night when he'd already decided to go along with whatever Zechs wanted - and that moment when Zechs stopped the whipping, spared him from shame of crying out.

But all of it was in the past, wasn't it? After that, there was Zechs' suffering; humiliation and abuse he had gone through.

The morph's face distorted in a small ripple of pain.

"Do your hands hurt?"

A stupid question it was; what did he think?

"A little. Phantom pains. Where are you taking me?"

"Didn't they tell you? Didn't Treize tell..."

"Treize..." A brief smile curved Zechs' lips, clashing with an expression of distress in his eyes. Trowa flinched. He couldn't figure it out, what there was between those two - if anything was there. Or, maybe, he just didn't want to figure out. "No, he didn't."

"To Adrianopolis," Trowa said softly. "You'll be free there. You'll be able to go to Marotanian consulate there and they'll send you home."

There was no joy in Zechs' eyes, against Trowa's expectation; his gaze was too tired, with something lost in it. As if nothing could really gladden or really hurt him.

Trowa moved on a sudden impulse, before letting the thoughts of advisability take hold on him.

"Zechs... If you give me a word of honor that you won't try to get hold of the flyer, won't try to hinder me - I'll release you."

He didn't know whether one could believe a morph's word of honor, whether the creatures even had such a thing. But what else was he supposed to do? To keep Zechs with his hands chained for four or five days? Maybe, for the sake of security he was supposed to do it.

"No one is going to harm you any more," he continued hastily when Zechs didn't say anything. It looked like he tried to coax the morph into giving this word, didn't he? "It's just a few days and you'll be able to go. There is no reason for you to try to do anything crazy. I'll bring you to Adrianopolis - it's not a bad place, is it?"

"I won't try to do anything against you," Zechs said quietly. There was a strangest expression in his eyes, as if he didn't quite believe Trowa was serious. "I give you my word of honor."

Not letting himself think any more, Trowa walked up and ran the card through the lock. The cuffs opened and Zechs' hands fell down deadly. Trowa heard a hiss of pain, saw Zechs' face going blank. There were rough signs left on his wrists by the cuffs, skin abraded and swollen around them.

I can go now, Trowa thought; shut the door and leave him till the time to bring him food comes. But somehow he couldn't move, couldn't look away from the crippled hands curled awkwardly on Zechs' lap.

He reached and touched these hands, as lightly as he could. The skin felt very hot, the scars jagged and hard under the tips of his fingers. Zechs didn't flinch; his eyes, widened, looked up at Trowa mesmerized, unblinking, black pupils huge.

He held the morph's hands between his, and Zechs didn't make an attempt to get free. Trowa ran his fingers over Zechs' wrists softly. He didn't know what he was doing, it was sheer insanity - but he couldn't help it. There was something stronger in this touch than the reason, than the training infused into him by the Misques. 

"Zechs," he whispered. "I'm really sorry."

Suddenly one hand slipped out of his - and a moment later hot fingers touched his face, pulling his long bangs away from his eyes. Trowa felt so unprotected, as if the hair falling over his face was really some kind of shield. Now nothing hid him from Zechs' insistent look. But Zechs' hand that kept smoothing his hair away was almost gentle.

"It's okay, Trowa," Zechs said in a calm, composed voice - and then his lips trembled and something broke in his face, tears trickling down from his eyes. Trowa reacted unconsciously, in some instinctive way that had been unthinkable for him before even a few weeks ago. He pulled Zechs to himself, wrapped his arms around the morph's shoulders - and felt thin hard body tremble in his embrace.

Zechs' self-composure was gone, replaced with desperate sobbing; his face was pressed against Trowa's chest - and Trowa didn't let him go, stroked the long tangled hair.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, "it's okay, it's all over. No one will hurt you any more. You'll be home soon."

He felt Zechs shake, almost convulsively, heard broken words coming between sobs.

"I can't... I can't go home... they won't want me any more, for nothing."

It was true - he had so little in common with his folks now, even his fingers didn't look morph-like any more. And after everything that happened to him...

"I see," Trowa whispered. "I understand. But it'll be okay."

What else could he say? He didn't know what Zechs would do; he didn't know what he himself was going to do, where he was going. How was he going to go back to the Order when his heart belonged elsewhere... belonged to the frail blond boy sleeping in the next room now.

To be continued

**__**

Oh, how can I thank enough all of you for your wonderful reviews and insightful comments! Thank you for reading this fic and staying with me all through it. You're great, people. Well, the story goes on. Nothing is easy in this universe :-)


	11. Part 11

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 11

"Don't worry about me." Zechs stood at the glass wall of the spaceport building, stuffing his hands deeper in the pockets. His eyes were squinted against the sun. "I'll be okay."

A little absent smile appeared on his lips, so naive that it made Trowa's heart clench painfully.

They landed on Adrianopolis right after the dawn but the spaceport of Bajazet, the biggest city of the planet, was never quiet. As they stopped in the hall on the first level, near to cash machines, people swarmed around them in a steady fluctuating crowd. Not only people - various species - and Trowa thought that Zechs didn't stand out against other humans at all, no more than he and Quatre did.

"I'm sorry I can't get more money," Trowa said. He'd paid for the landing permission, since he hadn't had a place reserved - and, doing that, he entered his Misque code. He felt a bit nervous; all Misques had accounts they could use when necessary - of course, it went without saying that the money would be used only for the needs of the Order. What Trowa apprehended was that they thought him dead and cancelled the access. But they didn't - and it filled him with a warm feeling. So, they believed in him, they waited for him... they knew he would come.

He took off the rest of the money from the account in cash and split it, leaving a part for him and Quatre for a taxi and giving the rest to Zechs. It was hardly for the needs of the Order but Trowa decided he would work it off later. He couldn't leave Zechs just like that, without any connections, without money... One could found it strange, almost incredible that he was concerned about the man he'd feared and despised nearly hysterically just a short while ago. But Trowa couldn't help it - it was how he felt.

"You have other things to think about," Zechs added in a soft voice. 

Trowa nodded and held Quatre's hand tighter. The boy was so quiet; exhaustion made him apathetic. His curved eyelashes blinked tiredly over misted eyes.

In the beginning Trowa had worried how Quatre would feel about Zechs being on the same ship with them. He even thought about not telling anything, because Quatre was ill, he might've never even known. But he did tell, and Quatre went very still - and then just said Trowa should give Zechs the ointment for his hands - the one Doctor J had given them to make scars heal faster.

But Quatre must've been bothered more than he let out because once, in half-delirious state, he just walked into Zechs' room when Trowa brought food there. Trowa had to admit he was not nice to the boy at the moment, snapped at him quite harshly. The situation was potentially dangerous - even if he almost trusted Zechs by then.

Yet Zechs didn't try to do anything, just looked at Quatre intently.

"He's your former cellmate," he said to Trowa later, some surprise in his voice.

"I know he is."

"I didn't think you and him... Oh well, I understand."

What the hell did he understand? It irritated Trowa because the closer they were to Adrianopolis, the less he understood himself. And now, when he was in Bajazet, there was no time left to ponder at all.

It'll be over soon, he thought. Quatre would give the vaccine away and be well again. But what was he, Trowa, going to do? 

There was no other answer to this, actually. He was returning to the Order, was giving up everything else. His life and his soul belonged to Misques - and all the rest was just a folly, a temporary distraction. 

But how would he live without Quatre? How would he live without ever touching the boy again? There was just too little, they just had sex only twice: that first time - and then after the exchange of vaccine - and later Quatre was willing but too weak to really participate, and Trowa didn't want to burden him. They'd never do it again, would they?

"Good luck to you both," Zechs said, and Trowa thought it was him who should've wished good luck to the morph.

"Bye, Zechs," Quatre said quietly.

"Bye, Quatre," Zechs smiled. "Bye, Trowa Barton."

He turned away, and Trowa found himself gazing at the tall narrow figure walking away from them. The silhouette was somewhat huddled because of Zechs' hands hidden in the pockets. The long sheet of smooth hair distinguished Zechs from the crowd for a while and then he merged with others. Trowa led Quatre to the taxis.

As the air-car glided between shimmering towers of Glass City, another name of Bajazet, he couldn't resist, pulled Quatre against his chest, kissed soft tangled hair and burning forehead.

__

"He doesn't want you to leave him," Trowa recalled Doctor J's words. He and Quatre never talked about it - a topic that seemed to be under a secret prohibition; and Trowa already knew Quatre was good at keeping silent on the topics he didn't want to talk about. But now, as he met the boy's eyes, so dark-blue they looked black, he suddenly knew that Quatre didn't talk about it exactly because he understood everything.

Trowa kept himself from tightening his arms around Quatre, not to hurt the boy. He realized he was biting his lip until feeling the taste of blood; but it didn't help much to sober him. There were words he wanted to say but Trowa knew he couldn't, didn't have the right to say them. Nothing could be changed any more.

__

I love you...

The car stopped at a tall lancet-like building; House Tervingi, the hotel where Misques rented a floor. Over the reception desk, among others, Trowa saw a small silver tab with joined lion heads - the symbol Trowa hadn't seen since his insignia was torn off his jacket in Ismail prison. The symbol he remembered as long as he remembered himself. Home; he was at home.

He felt weak, almost lightheaded when he introduced himself. Would they accept him? Did they wait for him?

They did; they expected him and were ready. The elevator took him and Quatre up - and as the doors slid apart, Trowa saw familiar burgundy-red uniform and knew it was for real. His long way was finally over.

The General on Adrianopolis was a woman; a rather young one, with delicate pale face and long almond eyes behind metal-rimmed glasses. She didn't smile, as regulations demanded from her, but there was some softness in her gaze that Trowa had never seen in Raymond Dien's or in any other Misque occupying a high position.

"Lieutenant Barton? We hoped you'd come. Every branch office was informed that you could appear. It's very convenient that you got here, to Adrianopolis."

Her words did for Trowa what he couldn't reach during all the time before, mustering himself into necessary emotions, into satisfaction with fulfilled mission. Her words made him relieved, as if he knew for sure now everything was going to be all right - Trowa didn't know which way but all right.

"I'm General Une," she said, "or Une, as my people call me and you can call as well." Such a thing wouldn't be possible on Nevis - but here it somehow seemed just right, and Trowa nodded, strangely pleased with the sound of her name. Her longish eyes behind the glasses looked at him attentively. "We kept sending inquiries to Marotania about you but all they answered was that they had no idea of your whereabouts. Looks like for once these monsters said the truth, didn't they?"

"I..." he started. "There was no way to return faster."

"Unfortunately." Une's voice had a small note of disappointment in it. "So, as far as I understand, the vaccine is lost."

"Oh no," he broke in heatedly, suddenly flushed with the importance of what he was going to say, of bringing good news. "It's not lost! Quatre... he's carrying it..."

He turned to Quatre and realized he still held the boy's hand. Une didn't refer to it in any way but, of course, she noticed. Quatre's small palm slipped out of Trowa's hand. The boy seemed to feel so bad he hardly even noticed where he was; his eyes, wide open, had a wild, unseeing look in them - and Trowa felt a pang of pain at the wish to support him. But it would be inappropriate; even touching another person was inappropriate.

"Oh." A brief flicker of joy on Une's face was as much as she could afford showing. But her voice expressed more, filled with warmth. "You're a true member of the Order, Lieutenant Barton. I'm sure your determination won't be left without an award. Or a promotion. I think you well deserve it."

He didn't care for an award - or rather he had his - being back with Misques again, being accepted...

"It's not my credit," he said hastily, "I hardly did anything, it's Quatre who took it on himself. And the flyer - I came in a flyer, we'll need to return money for it..."

"By all means," Une said firmly, interrupting him. Two men at her side moved when she made a sign to them. "We'll take care of everything."

Trowa saw the men walk up, and one of them caught Quatre just a moment before the boy seemed to be about to slip on the floor.

"Trowa," Quatre's voice was very weak - and somewhat panicked. He didn't like when someone unfamiliar touched him, Trowa recalled and turned to say that he'd take care of everything himself, but Une stopped him with a short gesture.

"Stay here, Lieutenant. Your participation is not needed. We have everything ready to remove the vaccine - as I said, we expected you might come here."

He stayed - and the door shut after Quatre. It was going to be all right, Trowa told himself, they'd take the vaccine out and Quatre would recover. Une looked at him patiently, almost kindly.

"You can rest now, Lieutenant Barton - or I can call you Trowa, I presume? You look exhausted. And you're probably hungry - I'll send you some food here. Your uniform and your room will be ready shortly."

She and her people walked out, leaving him alone in a spacious, nearly empty room. Strange - Misque rooms never seemed empty to Trowa before, and this one, with its simple furniture and a lone decoration of lion heads was equipped exactly in compliance with regulations.

To divert himself - and not to think about Quatre, Trowa looked through the window. The sight was really spectacular - tall fragile spires, half-transparent, and green-blue, blinding sky over it. It almost made you feel as if there was no solid ground under the feet, feel floating.

The door opened and a robot-servant brought a tray with food. The taste was as bland and the mixture apparently as nutritious as Misques' food usually was but Trowa hardly could feel any taste anyway.

He wished so much he could be with Quatre. There was nothing he could do for the boy at the moment, and Trowa told himself this wish was unreasonable, egoistic. He paced around the room nervously, unable to snap out of the mood. The robot gathered the plates and left the room.

Suddenly a thought came to him, and panic flooded him with choking wave. Trowa stopped still, unable to take a breath for a moment. Misques... Misques didn't consider anesthesia, all minor surgeries were carried out without it. A real Misque should be invulnerable to pain... or should be able to handle it.

They would think it 'a minor surgery'. But Quatre was not a Misque! Oh no... Trowa rushed to the door, to call for someone, to warn them - and his hands stumbled against a smooth surface, immobile under his attempts.

Was he locked? He couldn't believe it, it must've been some mistake. Sick feeling overwhelmed him, making him feel for a moment as if he was again in morph prison, anxious to get out, unsure if he'd be able to do it, to fulfil his task, make Raymond and others' death worthy. 

Of course, it was an illusion, he was at home, was with the Order. He just wished they didn't lock him... or leave him some way to communicate. There was an intercom on the table and Trowa picked the receiver. No tone came.

He looked at the stupid machine, frowning, unable to figure out what it was all about. He had to stop them, to let them know they should've used anesthesia, not to hurt Quatre. Suddenly the room swayed in front of his eyes, the floor going unsteady. He only felt like this when he was very ill... He grabbed the corner of the table, trying to stay on his feet - but his hands grew feeble as well, so, it didn't help and Trowa felt hard floor hit against his knees.

The food was spiked, he understood clearly. But why was it done and what could he do about it - he didn't have time to think about it because blackness took him and he gave in.

* * *

He came round in a different room and it was dark. His head pounded with heavy, black pain and the feeling of sickness returned as soon as he moved. Trowa scrambled out of the bed, shivering at the sensation of cold floor under his bare feet. Starry sky and rich night illumination of Bajazet was behind the window. He looked at it and barely had time to rush to the bathroom before his stomach turned inside out.

The drug must've been a crude, utilitarian thing, used for its purpose without regard of aftereffects. Trowa felt weak and cold and his brain still refused to function properly. 

What was it all about? Were they angry with him for something, considered that he neglected his duties? But he'd done his best, hadn't he? His uniform lay on a chair, just as Une promised him. Trowa touched it with the tips of his fingers, recognizing familiar textile and feeling faintly queasy for some reason instead of usual and appropriate pride. He didn't have much choice, though, his own clothes were gone, so, he put it on.

The door was closed. He chided himself for being paranoid but couldn't help it, struggled in vain to open it. The room was soundproof, they all were, so, there was no sense in calling.

"What is it I've done?" he muttered instead, slipping on the floor sullenly, drawing his bare feet closer; he wasn't given boots. "What is it for?"

Didn't they trust him? 

He realized suddenly that even two weeks before now this thought would make him agonize with its bitterness; but at the moment he worried about other things more. 

He wanted to see Quatre, to make sure the boy was all right. The surgery must've been over by now, Quatre probably already felt well. Wrapping his arms around himself, Trowa closed his eyes and imagined the hot thin-armed embrace of the boy, strength bordering on despair in it. He remembered those times when he held Quatre, naked, against his own naked body, their nipples and their groins touching... 

Was he crazy? A member of the Order shouldn't have thought about these things. But at that moment Trowa realized he didn't care for regulations. He wouldn't give these memories away for anything.

The floor was icy but he didn't want to go back to the bed, in case if the door opened while he was asleep and he would miss it. He did doze off after a while, after his frozen body went so numb he didn't feel cold any more. He hadn't dreamed about Raymond for a while - but now he saw the bony hard face again, heard the voice he already started forgetting.

__

"It's for your own good, Trowa. You know where you belong."

The door clicked open after the dawn. There was a robot with a food tray behind it but Trowa didn't feel hungry enough. Especially for another portion of drug, he thought acidly and got scared with fury of his own thought. He'd probably spent too much time surrounded by enemies that he kept expecting the worst even now, when he was at home, with his own folks.

He passed the robot and walked along the corridor. His bare feet made a slapping sound on the floor. The corridors had the usual feeling of a Misque office: dark-red-clad men and women hurrying on their business, their expressions almost identical in their withdrawn seriousness. Trowa wasn't quite sure what he was looking for until he saw a small tab with Une's name on it. He knocked and, when no one answered, he walked in.

The General was here - and a few more people - and as they looked at him, Trowa felt embarrassed and chagrined at his forwardness. He hadn't been allowed to enter, after all. A part of his mind told him to step away, to leave and wait - but he didn't think he could wait any more.

"Trowa?" Une's voice was slightly concerned and quite mild - milder than any other General's voice Trowa had ever heard. "Something happened?"

No, you just put me to sleep for God knows how many hours and kept me in a locked room even longer, he wanted to say but said carefully instead:

"Did the surgery pass all right? Did you remove the vaccine?"

"Yes, sure," Une answered impassively, as if it was something that went without saying, almost didn't need her attention. "One of our disciples is just of the right age, she can carry it without any harm for herself as long as it's necessary - as long as it takes to sort out the things with the Coalition of Northern Region."

She turned away from him after saying that, indicating that the conversation was over, tilted her beautiful head with flower-shaped coiffure towards another men, said something quietly about the document in her hands.

"And Quatre?" Trowa found his voice gone suddenly. "Can I see him?"

He saw a frown of displeasure between Une's delicate eyebrows; she paused as if hesitating whether to answer - and this pause was enough to make terror and grief flood him. He jerked forward, almost touched her.

"He died? Is he dead?"

"No, Lieutenant Barton, not at all." The passing to this form of address must've been significant but Trowa didn't notice it. Relief, as immediate as shock had been, made him tremble. "He was completely alive and feeling well when he left our office."

The horrible meaning of her words took a little while to descend on him; for a few seconds he looked at Une not quite able to process it.

"What... what did you say?"

Trowa heard disapproving noise of other Misques around him; he'd spoken too loud, with an edge in his voice. An elderly man said sharply:

"You forget yourself, Lieutenant."

Une raised her thin-fingered hand to quiet him.

"It's all right. I just said that your companion walked away, Trowa."

A sudden seizure of grief took his heart, feeling like steel vices. Quatre was gone; he wouldn't see him again. 

Of course, Trowa knew they'd have to part - no matter how he denied it; but he told himself there still was time - if not for touching - then for talking, for greedy looking at the boy's big-eyed face. He wasn't prepared to know that Quatre just wasn't here.

And then another thought came, much more bitter and terrifying.

"How could he go? He's just had the surgery..."

"We have qualified doctors, don't you know?" Une's voice turned freezing cold, all mildness gone from it. "He was taken care of, so, there must be no any trouble."

The thought sickened him, of the scalpel cutting through Quatre's skin, of the needle sewing the cut. It must've hurt... they would think that if a Misque girl could take it without anesthesia, then Quatre surely could.

The thought was so agonizing that Trowa couldn't talk for a moment. Yet he knew he had to talk.

"Why..." His voice badly obeyed him. "Why did you throw him out? How... could you?"

__

"He doesn't want you to leave him..."

"Of course, we didn't throw him out," Une said calmly, her slender finger readjusting the glasses on her nose. "He was properly thanked and paid for his assistance to the Order. Speaking about payment, didn't you say that you should reimburse the flyer you were using? If you tell us the account number, we'll transfer money promptly."

He barely heard it; blood pounded in his ears deafeningly. His anger was so strong he almost couldn't breathe. His voice came out tight, with a broken note in it:

"He saved my life."

"Very possibly," Une said. "But you didn't expect him to stay here, did you?"

He did; it was a secret dream, almost too naive to dwell on it - but the truth was that in some ideal case Trowa thought it was possible. Of course, Quatre couldn't become a Misque - he wasn't from Nevis and he wouldn't be considered pure enough. But, maybe, he just could stay, in some way, to work for the Order, to make it possible for Trowa to see him. Or to know he was all right, at least.

"It's not a brothel to keep here your lovers, Lieutenant," the same man said.

The mention of a brothel sounded outrageously rude - and Une winced at it, but this time she didn't chide the man.

"Away on a mission, as you were, in extreme conditions," she continued in her rich, sweet voice, "one can easily understand that you could allow a kind of indiscretion. We're reasonable people, we don't punish you for it. But you're a part of the Order now, Lieutenant. You're expected to follow certain rules. And I'm afraid the presence of your young fellow traveler doesn't comply with the rules."

"What if something happens to him..."

"It's not your concern any more, Lieutenant. Your concern should be what else you can do for the Order. Did you forget whom your life belongs? The Order saved you when you were supposed to be sent to processing, after your mother gave you away. We brought you up. You gave the vows to serve Misques and people of Nevis. Did you forget it?"

"I didn't," he whispered, his head lowered.

The words had a strange power over him, affecting him on subconscious level. These were the words he'd heard from early childhood, that he remembered nearly better than his own name. Yes, the Order had the right on him: he would be dead - processed - if Misques hadn't taken him - and his duty was to serve them without any regard at his own life and interests. He didn't have any interests apart from the ones of the Order.

But Quatre was not a Misque; how could they do it to him?

"When did he go?" Trowa found himself asking. "I have to find him."

"No, you don't. And you won't, Lieutenant. If necessary, we'll limit your freedom again - up until you part with your illusions."

Trowa looked at her in horror. So, that's why they locked him. Like a criminal... 

"Lieutenant, it's difficult to overestimate the value of the vaccine you brought us. We already started negotiations with the Northern Region. When the assignation itself happens, you'll have the right to be present there. It's a big honor for someone so young as you. Don't endanger your good standing." Une's lips curved in a smile briefly.

He understood everything she said and didn't say. Don't resist, be a good boy - and you'll be awarded. And Trowa's reason told him the same. Be good, don't give them an occasion to lock you up. He would try to find Quatre... just to make sure the boy was all right, no harm was done to him...

Trowa nodded. The room was swirling in front of his eyes - but he did the right thing, demonstrated his readiness to obey.

"Daniel, Alexander, show Lieutenant the way to his room," Une said. Two men from behind her walked forward; they probably were the same ones who had taken Quatre away yesterday. Trowa couldn't help feeling a kind of animosity towards them, even knowing they were not to blame.

And then he understood. She didn't believe him, she still wanted him to be locked up.

Trowa stepped away, his hand seeking the handle of his saber instinctively. How weird... he wasn't given boots but the saber was there. 

"Lieutenant, no need to be violent." Une's voice was perfectly composed. "We don't like to apply force but we might be compelled to do so if you resist."

No, he wanted to say, no. He thought about Quatre, recalled the gentle face with so serious and yet so vulnerable eyes. It was so easy to hurt Quatre. He recalled the thin voice calling his name - the last word he heard from Quatre was his name; this time Trowa failed to help him. 

He couldn't unclasp his hand; it was spasmed on the handle of the saber. The men looked at him without anger, just with tried patience. Was he going to fight them? It was absurd, they were his folks. 

But as it happened, the choice was taken from him, because one of the men raised his hand with a small black box in it, and a second later the paralyzer was activated. Trowa felt every muscle in his body turn into nothing, his feet give up, as he slumped on the floor.

Lying crumpled, he saw fine boots of Une walk up to him, stop at his face.

"It's for your own good, Trowa," she said in a soft, almost sweet voice. "The Order will protect you from your own mistakes."

***********************************************************

"We appreciate your assistance. Misque Order won't forget your help. Please accept this small sign of our gratitude."

The female voice was melodic and calm. It flooded and ebbed somewhere behind on the edge of my consciousness. There was blackness in front of my eyes; now and then some objects floated out of it, colored in blinding light, and disappeared again. I felt a grip on my wrist - and then something cool lay in my palm. Money. They probably realized I was not holding it well, so, the same hand put the plastic cards in my pocket.

I felt so weak. The pain was so harsh and continued for so long; it'd taken me too much strength not to scream. I remembered lying on a surgical table and them talking above me.

"Better fasten him down so that he won't thrash."

Then I didn't know yet why they needed it. They were a man and a woman in lab coats and masks. Straps tightened on my wrists and ankles. I was about to panic and try to fight but at the next moment met cherry-black eyes looking at me from the next table.

A child; a girl, pretty like a doll, staring at me from under a fringe of sleek dark hair with quiet seriousness. I think I smiled at her. I knew she was going to take over the vaccine - and she was so young, she probably was afraid. Her long curved eyelashes fell and rose but her expression didn't change.

A hand probed my belly, against the scar that almost healed. J had stitched it very neatly, I hoped they would re-stitch it so that there would be no bad trace. Like on Zechs' hands... his scars were really bad...

What was I thinking about? My mind wandered. J, Zechs, Trowa... If Trowa only could be with me now; I remembered that time at the infirmary - then it all seemed so easy because I could look in Trowa's eyes, so dark-green - like leaves in dusk. And hold his hand...

"Here, I think," the man said - and suddenly pain splashed like scalding water over my side. I hadn't realized they hadn't done an injection or something, like J had done. For a moment I almost thought they just forgot.

It hurt; I didn't want to scream, bit my lips fiercely but the pain went on and I didn't know how I would bear it.

"Hold him down," the man said, "he's trembling too much."

It was when I understood that they didn't forget but wanted it this way for some reason. 

I hoped it would end soon; then I prayed for it to end - but it didn't, the pain continued as the fingers went inside me, searching for the capsule. I felt sick with blood that filled my mouth and I couldn't swallow it all, so, it trickled from the corner of my mouth. 

There must've been some sense in it, I told myself; maybe, it was things like this that made Trowa as he was, made him that strong. Maybe, if I could bear it, I would be at least in a way up to him, I would deserve him. For him, there was nothing I wouldn't do.

They took out the capsule but pain didn't stop; it was tearing, like claws cutting my insides. 

"We'll stitch him later," the man said. "Now let's take care of Susanne."

I saw a scalpel in his hand and saw a cut he made on the girl's belly. They cut her without anesthesia as well! I felt terror and felt shame for my weakness. It surely was not so bad, if such a little one could endure it. Her face wrinkled in pain, as if she was going to cry - but no tears appeared in her eyes. She opened her small pink mouth and hissed - a sound like a kitten makes when scared. They slid the capsule inside her and the woman got a stitching machine in her hands.

Then the world started losing clearness for me. I barely felt how the stitches were put on my cut. It hurt not there but deeper, as if I could still feel fingers digging inside me. The girl was taken away - I wasn't sure when. The darkness was pulsing slowly around me.

It was okay, it would pass soon, I told myself. I just had to bear it for a little while. Then Trowa would come and everything would be okay. I just needed a little rest.

Someone came; my vision was so bad for some reason that I couldn't even say clearly if it was a doctor or one of dark-red-clad people - Misques. He pulled me from the table.

"Come on, dress up."

Pain slammed so hard I almost fell on my knees, would do if he didn't hold me. He shook me in annoyance and started helping me with my clothes.

"Trowa," I said. I thought they wanted me to meet Trowa. The man didn't answer. He walked me somewhere, the grip of his hand on my upper arm hard and steady. Then the female voice came.

"You can go now. We don't stop you."

I seemed to be in the elevator, go down - and then the door opened and I felt cool draft of fresh air on my face.

* * *

It was when I understood I wouldn't see Trowa. I turned back, wanting to protest even though I didn't quite know what I could say - and the man stepped forward, caught my shoulder and said looking down at me:

"Leave Trowa Barton alone. He doesn't want you."

He pushed me away and I stumbled - and the door slammed shut.

I hovered on the front steps; pain made me weak and dumb. It took a little while for the meaning of the man's words to settle. I felt shell-shocked - so slow in taking in what happened, what I was supposed to do. Trowa didn't want me... he wanted me to leave.

"It isn't true," I whispered. It was a bright day; the sun blazed in the sky; but it was also cold - or it seemed so to me. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to get warmer. Under my touch, pain pulsed in my left side, burning hot. The sun was turning black now and then.

Wasn't it true? I never expected to stay with Trowa after he got back to his Order. I knew it was not possible - his whole life was with Misques; and in this life I didn't have place. I just didn't want him to die - wanted him to have what he wanted, couldn't see him so unhappy. I just wanted to stay with him a little longer - at least as long as it took to get here.

Now he was with his people - and what did I expect? What did I want, what kind of award? Trowa never made any promises to me. So, everything was as it had to be.

I just wanted to see him. Just one more time; just to see his beautiful face half-hidden under the long bangs, meet serious gaze of his dark-green eyes. Even if he didn't touch me ever again... if I only could see him, it would be so different. I knew it would stop hurting then.

But he didn't want me - so, I had to go.

The first steps brought waves of agonizing pain through my belly. I held my side, feeling tender stitched gash under my hands. It didn't stop throbbing but I kept walking, just one step after another. And when, after I don't know how long, I looked back, I couldn't see the building of the hotel, lost among other glass towers of the city.

I had to start my life on my own; without Trowa. It surely was possible - I had lived no problem before knowing him - so, I would be able to do it again. Maybe, I just needed some time; some time to heal - some time for the thoughts of Trowa to lose their excruciating freshness. But, maybe, I didn't want to heal; I didn't want to forget.

I stopped on a quiet corner and counted the money I had. It was enough to get a room in a place where no one would ask questions - and stay there... until the pain passed. It was a good idea and I tried to will my body into moving. I would manage it if thoughts of Trowa, Trowa's face and voice didn't haunt me. I couldn't stand it; pain broke me down on my knees and I crouched, suppressing whimpers.

Time seemed to get funny. I didn't know how long I stayed like this. It got even colder; maybe, evening was approaching. After a while I made myself get up - and nearly fell again. Pain in my side was so bad I would throw up if I had something in my stomach.

There was a curious feeling on my skin and I looked down. The left side of my shirt was soaked in blood.

It wasn't supposed to be like that, I knew it; something was wrong. I prodded myself in making a few more steps and then thought I wouldn't be able to find a room, just wouldn't be able to walk that long. And anyway, they would hardly take me, bleeding like this.

Blackness threatened to surround me again and I thought panicky that if I fell in the street, they would take me into processing - a person without documents as I was. I didn't know why I cared but the thought of being deconstructed into organs somehow made me sick.

It was what made me move, after all. I hobbled to the taxi box and pushed a button. An air-car appeared almost immediately; the driver gave me a look as I got on the back seat.

"I have money," I mumbled, desperate for my words to sound clear. "Take me to a hospital, please."

He still kept casting suspicious looks at me; I hung on the remnants of consciousness desperately. If I passed out, nothing prevented him to take the money and dump me again - and then processing... But there was a moment when I knew I wouldn't hold on - and, anyway, what did it matter what happened to me. So, I closed my eyes and let it go.

I didn't expect to wake up. But as it happened, I did. The room was white and warm and seemed a bit fuzzy - but pain was gone. I wanted to turn and didn't know why I couldn't; I grew so weak.

"Shh, don't move." A woman with kind aged face bent to me; her soft hand brushed over my forehead. "You don't need to go anywhere."

"Don't I?" I couldn't hear my own voice but it didn't matter. Her words sounded so good; it was so nice not to have to go. She smiled and patted me again.

"It was a close call, you know. You're lucky the doctor got you, child. Someone had done a butcher's job on you, your spleen was all shredded. But you'll be okay now, you'll be okay..."

To be continued

**__**

Special thanks to Skippis Cat, Rogue11, Kasra, ash, Tri, Sheiakurei, Lady Priscilla, Kai Willow, Silver Dragon, crystal, jefcat, SilverShinigami and everyone else for the the most wonderful reviews!!! You are the best! Well, there are three more chapters left before everyone finds their place... but not before a lot of bad things happen :-)


	12. Part 12

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 12

They did lock him after all; and they took away his saber. The latter didn't matter - he wasn't going to go violent anyway. With all this time at his disposal, alone in the room too cold to sleep, Trowa had come to some decisions. There must've been a way to find Quatre - or to find out if he was okay. Please, Trowa thought, please let him be okay... even if I won't ever see him again.

But to start searching, he at least had to be out. Une understood it as well; or perhaps she was not satisfied with his repentance yet.

He got a book on the history of the Order, the regulations and the book of oaths as his company - the reading that was supposed to turn Trowa on the right track of mind. He read them; he prayed and repented kneeling, three times a day, as it was expected. But, maybe, for Une his unceasing pacing told more than his proper behavior. Trowa knew it was unreasonable to give himself away like that but his anxiety was too strong, and again he found himself measuring the perimeter of the room... like he'd done in prison cell a few weeks ago. 

Then he grew so weak that walking became an ordeal.

One time after he got locked, a robot brought him food and pushed it through the opening in the door. But later there was nothing. Fasting was a normal penance for lawbreakers, so, Trowa wasn't surprised. There was water in the tap and it was good because it meant he didn't need to suffer with thirst as well. He felt hunger pains only first two days and ignored them quite easily - and then there was just weakness.

Trowa stopped walking finally and just lay in bed, facing the door, waiting for it to open. It must've opened, sooner or later - they were not going to let him die, right?

He thought he started having hallucinations from long staring when the window on the door suddenly opened and an apple rolled through it and landed on the floor. Trowa blinked but it didn't go away, so he got off the bed cautiously and picked it up. It was big, hard and red and smelled beautifully. It smelled so good, in fact, that for a few moments Trowa couldn't believe it its reality.

"Hey, are you going to eat it?" a thin voice came from behind the door. The shutter of the door was slightly raised. Trowa came closer, looked through it and met a gaze of very black bright eyes glistening from under a dark fringe. "Eat it before they find out."

"Thank you," he said, slightly lost, and bit into the apple.

"Ugh-ghu," the girl said. "I'm Susanne."

She was standing on a stool, he could notice, to be able to look into the opening. She looked like a doll in her tight-fitting uniform, with a small saber and a cap of smooth black hair. She tilted her head awry, listening to the sounds in the corridor.

"Be careful," Trowa said. "They'll punish you if they see you here."

"I am careful," she said and Trowa knew she meant it. She had that usual feeling of a Misque disciple around herself - so serious, so dignified; even as they were talking through the half-raised shutter. And then something glittered in her eyes. "Why did they lock you? Because you wanted to see that boy?"

He felt a pang of apprehension at her words; she knew about Quatre... Susanne seemed just of the right age, could she be the one who carried the vaccine now?

"Did you see him?" he asked with faltering voice. She nodded and suddenly pulled her jacket up. A scar under her ribs was long and glaring red.

"Does it hurt?" Trowa asked quietly.

"No. Not any more." She added seriously. "In the beginning it did. And your friend - he was hurt, too."

It was nothing Trowa didn't suspect - but knowing it for sure suddenly made him feel weak. He pressed his forehead to the door, waiting anguish to let him go.

"He's strong," Susanne said. "Almost like a Misque."

There was stinging in his eyes and Trowa struggled, knowing that tears were so close. Of course, Quatre was strong. His beautiful boy, his little prince was strong and brave. Trowa's vision became blurry but he raised his head and smiled at Susanne.

"Did he draw that?" she asked suddenly plucking a folded paper from under her jacket. 

The lush forest of startling colors - emerald of leaves, blue and red and yellow of exotic birds; and among green, a long stealing body of a great black cat, a brown bulk of a bear, golden coils of a huge snake... Trowa had thought the drawing was lost, gone with his clothes, maybe, burnt. He missed it so much.

"I know this book," Susanne said.

"Ah?"

"The book," she repeated. "It's about jungles, about a boy who was lost and brought up by wolves. He didn't draw the boy, did he? My mother read the book to me."

Trowa couldn't let the paper go. His fingers clasped on it too hard. But it was all he had left from Quatre, wasn't it? He managed to take control over himself finally.

"When did your mother give you away?" It probably was not so long time ago, if Susanne remembered what she was read; it must've been so difficult for her, at this age.

"She didn't give me away," the girl said seriously. "She wouldn't ever do such a thing. She always said if she was to have a child above the quote, she would better leave Nevis than give her own child away. She died," Susanne finished abruptly.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He saw her blink quickly, her eyes wet. Then she looked up.

"It's okay. Une loves me. She takes care of me. She trusted me to carry the vaccine. It's an honor."

"Don't you feel bad?" Trowa knew she wasn't supposed to but it still surprised him.

"Not at all," she shook her head. "And, anyway, soon we'll pass the vaccine to the Coalition. Une is negotiating now. Soon we'll go to the Northern Region and give it away. It'll be so interesting! I'll see new places! I haven't seen anything but Nevis and this place..."

She suddenly stopped on a half-phrase, rolled down from the stool.

"Someone's going! Bye!"

"Bye," Trowa said letting the shutter fall.

The apple tasted wonderful. He tried to make it last as long as possible but it didn't quite work. Then he just lay touching Quatre's drawing with the tips of his fingers.

***********************************************************

It turned out I'd spent four days unconscious after being brought to the hospital and having my spleen removed. It cost way more money that I had. Megan, the kind nurse, asked whether I by chance had an insurance. I said 'no', I never had one. She still made me give her my name and checked it in the system.

"No, you don't," she agreed with a sigh. "All right, maybe, the doctor will come up with something. She won't want you to go to the street in your state."

I really had no idea what to do; they could've kicked me out now but I still had nothing to pay with.

"I can sign a contract and pay as I earn," I suggested when Doctor Po appeared.

"And how are you going to earn?" she asked with a frown on her strong-featured face. 

Well, I wasn't going to discuss it. In fact, I wasn't sure I would be able to earn money as before. What good was I when a man touching me made me freak out, sent me into unbeatable panic? But if I had to, I knew I would be able to cope with it. After all, they'd saved my life at this hospital.

"All right," finally Doctor Po said with a wince. "Stay here until you get well - and then we'll decide something."

It was two days later she came to my ward glowing quietly, excitement filling her eyes.

"You know what, Quatre?" She sat on my bed, which was unusual, and she smiled - with was even more unusual. "I've got your blood test. I thought there was something, so, I sent it to re-check. Have you ever been in the Northern Region? Well, I meant to ask if you ever had seizure-flu."

I didn't know what to answer, so, I nodded.

"It's amazing. Seizure-flu, even if a patient survives, doesn't leave immunity. But you have it in your blood."

It must've been the aftereffect of the capsule.

"In fact," she continued, "it's so strong it's apparently possible to make a vaccine... It can save so many lives."

It wasn't necessary, I wanted to say; Trowa had delivered the vaccine, and the Northern Region would receive it soon. But I didn't know if I could talk about it.

"It's amazing," Doctor Poe repeated. I just nodded. She looked at me and then said with a sigh. "You're a good kid, Quatre, but you're so quiet. You aren't in pain, are you? Megan can give you something."

"I'm okay," I said.

"Well," she shook her head. "We'll work together now, right? And a good thing is that you'll stay here so far. Actually, you won't get away from me until we're through," she added gently.

It was good I could stay here so far. When she left, I turned away and stared at the wall - as I usually did. 

***********************************************************

They finally came for him. Trowa got fresh clothes, boots, his saber back and a proper meal. The men treated him indifferently but without condemnation, so, he thought he must've redeemed his fault. He felt anxious about being let go, left alone - wanted to get to the computer and start checking whether he could find Quatre. It was hardly a good way but at least he could check... he couldn't bear the thought of it - he could check if Quatre was on the lists of dead.

But a man called Daniel never left his side - and there were others around - and then the General appeared. Trowa saw Susanne at her side, caught a short sly gaze the girl cast at him.

"I'm pleased to inform you that negotiations with the Coalition of the Northern Region has just completed. They fully agreed to our conditions. So, we'll starting there tomorrow."

Despite his weariness, Trowa felt a wave of excitement, probably induced from others, felt the familiar pride for the Order, pleasure of being a part of something so good and so powerful. Une waited until restrained exultation stopped, then raised her delicate hand.

"The delegation will consist of me, General Une, the leader of the delegation; Captain Daniel Hayes; Adjutant Masanori Aono; Adjutant Darla Aster; Lieutenant Trowa Barton; Disciple Susanne Wright."

Her beautiful eyes stopped at Trowa as she mentioned his name. She hadn't lied telling him that he would participate in the final procedure. Well, a Misque General wouldn't lie, would she?

"See you all tomorrow at five," she said. "Daniel, check that Lieutenant Barton stays in his room till departure, will you? He isn't fit to walk around much yet."

It wasn't right! Unfairness of it shocked and sickened him. Trowa needed time alone, he needed a computer - had to do something to find Quatre... If only he knew Quatre was alive - it would change everything. Then he would do whatever Une and others wanted him to do.

He thought he could make a deal with her.

"Sir, I need..."

"Please, Lieutenant," she winced as if he was causing her headache. "I thought you learned your lesson. In any case, I don't feel up to arguing with you any more. You go to your room now, tomorrow we all go to the Northern Region and then I'll pass you to our brothers from Nevis. I'm sure they'll find a way to come to understanding with you."

If she hadn't said it, if she'd just let him make the search - everything probably would have been different.

He spent the night looking at the dark-green sky through the huge window of his room. 

It was so difficult. The Order was his only home, the place where he was always accepted. Even punishing, they never turned away from him, never rejected him. Everything they did was just to keep him as a part of the Order. As long as he was with Misques, he never had to feel alone. He always had a place where to go.

He thought about Zechs, rejected by his own people and not accepted among humans. This fate scared him so much... Then, in prison, Zechs had been right - it was what Trowa feared most of all. He recalled how Zechs walked away from them in the spaceport - to nowhere; it still filled him with sadness and sense of wrongness to think about it. But there were things that caused him more anguish - so much anguish, in fact, that Trowa wasn't sure he would be able to live with it - with knowing that he'd left Quatre alone, never done anything to find the boy.

In the morning Daniel came up for him. Trowa followed the rest of the delegation for the early breakfast and then the air-car took them to the spaceport. On the backseat, Susanne took the place between him and Daniel, and Trowa was grateful for it. He could feel her bird-like light body pressed against his side and he liked it. She kept silent - they weren't supposed to know each other, apparently, and Susanne was good at keeping secrets - but her small hand touched his once or twice, as if accidentally, and Trowa felt sad and warm with it.

The girl still had so much of a homely child in her; in few years she probably would become just like any other Misque.

The lounge where they waited for the flight was a glass cupola with huge deep armchairs. Only two groups settled there so far: Misques and a delegation of Sillarians - their black round bodies shining in the rising sun, their long thin tentacles touching unceasingly as they carried on their tactile conversation.

A robot suggested drinks. Trowa took a few sips of orange juice and thought it was even better that Sillarians were here. The aliens had to use speech-adapters to talk with humans but they understood everything. Misques wouldn't allow a scandal in front of them.

He put the glass on the robot's tray and got up.

"Where're you going, Trowa?" Une looked up at him from the book she read, her gaze tired and slightly miffed.

"I quit," he said. Oh God, till the last moment he wasn't sure he could say these words. But then he said them - had broken his oath; and nothing happened, he didn't fall through the ground. It didn't become easy either - but at least there was no way back.

"Sit down," Une said. It looked like she didn't understand, just wanted him not to stand out in front of the aliens.

"Good bye," Trowa said. He wanted to say special good-bye for Susanne but didn't want to endanger the girl. Her eyes and mouth were round as she looked at him. He walked to the door.

"Daniel, follow him," Une said behind him. Trowa turned to her.

"You won't try to stop me, will you? It will be most embarrassing."

He walked out of the lounge and the glass door closed behind him. He couldn't afford lingering, so, he kept going.

"Barton!" It was Daniel's voice; the man did follow him, after all.

"What? Are you going to paralyze me..." he started, looking back - and suddenly in front of his eyes the transparent dome of the lounge burst out in fountains of glass. There was no sound - and it made the picture completely unreal, like some crazy dream. It only seems to me, Trowa had time to think - and then something heavy, like a huge paw, hit him. The world swirled around him - and darkness came.

When he could see again, it was the floor he saw in front of his eyes. Or he thought it was the floor; bright geometric ornaments that decorated it were barely visible now, hidden under a layer of crushed glass. Glass was smeared in red - and for some reason Trowa didn't like how it looked, even if he couldn't quite find a word for it.

He moved a little - and saw a few prone bodies, on the right and in front of him. One man didn't move - but a woman next to him knelt and her mouth was opened as she pressed her arm to her chest. There were muscles visible in her arm and white bones, and Trowa understood suddenly that she was screaming.

He didn't hear it; he heard nothing. People were running away and towards him but it was so quiet - just steady rustle of blood in his ears. Trowa got on his knees and saw Daniel. The man lay on the floor, face down, and long slivers of glass stuck from his jacket-covered back. There was such awkwardness in the position of his arms and legs that Trowa knew at once he was dead, even before seeing a huge pool of red spreading under him.

Behind Daniel, there was the lounge. Or there must have been - because it wasn't there. Just heaps of glass and plastic piled on its place.

It couldn't be; it must've been some mistake... his imagination... It just couldn't have happened. Trowa walked towards the crushed heap of debris. The floor seemed to rock under his feet and there was something that hindered him to walk but he didn't pay attention.

He saw Sillarians first, their black bodies thickly coated in green of their blood. And then there was wine-red - of Misque uniform - and broken bodies on the floor. A terrible feeling of deja vu flooded him. He had seen it before - his comrades lying dead on the floor of the hangar in morph prison. But this wasn't a memory; it was real.

Glass among glass broke under his foot. Une's spectacles. And then he saw a smaller body among adult ones - a broken doll left by a giant child. He fell on his knees on the shattered glass and picked Susanne up.

The front of Susanne's jacket was soggy with blood and torn - and in thick red Trowa saw black splinters of broken capsule stuck there. Her eyes were opened, not even dulled yet - and there was a surprised, uncomprehending expression frozen in them.

He felt warmth of her face as he closed her eyes - and her blood was soaking into his clothes as he pressed her to his chest. He shook in dry, racking sobs. Someone touched his shoulder. He reacted violently, jerking away. A man in police uniform said something but Trowa couldn't hear a word. There was just this quiet noise in his ears and that's all.

//"Give her to me."// He finally understood what the man said but it didn't mean he was going to obey.

"W-why d-did they do it?" he asked. He suddenly realized he was stammering; it didn't happen to him before. The man's eyes got a compassionate look in them. Trowa knew he said something, probably answered Trowa's question.

Another man took Susanne from his hands - and then there was a doctor next to him. Obtrusive hands patted him all over. He wanted to shake them off, to say he was okay. Then he understood what bothered him all the time, even though he didn't feel pain. A fragment of his own saber stuck from his side. Trowa reached to pull it out but the doctor got agitated suddenly, brushed his hands away - and then an oxygen mask was put on his face and he felt very light-headed. He didn't resist when they put him on stretchers and took him somewhere. He just didn't care.

* * *

He didn't care what they did to him. He would prefer they stopped fussing around him but to tell them that meant start arguing, and Trowa didn't want it. Finally they left him alone, after taking out the piece of the saber and a few splinters of glass. No one bothered him any more; there were other people in the ward but they all were too wrapped up in their own suffering to pay him attention. Silence enveloped him like a swaying shroud.

Well, the truth was he started hearing just a little. Bits and pieces - just enough to understand that he was considered 'lucky'; that the explosion was an attempt of assassination of Sillarian delegation - a successful attempt, obviously; that the blast was so strong there were over thirty wounded among those who just had been near to the lounge.

So, he had his answer to 'why'; or hadn't he? There could be no answer, no explanation as to why Susanne had to die. The same was about Une and others; and how many more lives would be lost because now the vaccine was destroyed. But it was Susanne Trowa mostly thought about. 

In some way, the thoughts of her were connected in his mind to the thoughts of Quatre; her death amplified his loss. She was gone - just like Quatre was gone. Trowa lost both of them. He never could protect anyone who was near to him; neither the girl who was so kind to him, nor the boy who trusted him. He failed them both. 

Trowa would hate himself - but instead of self-hatred there was just emptiness inside him. He didn't want anything; he didn't want to exist - to get attached to someone else, to lose someone else. It would be better if he just let it go.

Shadows flickered in front of his eyes, from the big TV screen - his neighbors watched news. It didn't bother him; nothing did. There was numbness spreading through him slowly - and Trowa knew soon he wouldn't feel sad any more. Everything would just be gone.

There was some movement next to him but he refused to look, refused to hear, wrapping himself deeper in his cocoon of solitude. And then something made him look and he turned - and there was Quatre looking down at him, his huge dark-blue eyes full of worry.

At the next moment Quatre's eyes brightened, his small hands lay on Trowa's face and he said something, Trowa couldn't discern what.

"Y-you're real, aren't you?" It was a silly question - no hallucination could feel so real as the hands cupping his cheeks - but Trowa had to make sure. Quatre nodded eagerly; there was a smile on his lips but his eyelashes trembled as if he was going to cry. "You're okay..."

"Yes," Quatre said, and now Trowa could hear him, better with every word. "I saw the news, about the explosion, and that there were Misques there. And they brought the wounded to our hospital, and I thought you could be there, so, I looked for you and found you..."

Of course, it was Quatre; who else could talk that much without breaking for a breath?

"G-good," Trowa said. "That you f-found me."

Quatre's eyes went round.

"You're stammering! It must be shellshock. But it'll pass, I know it'll pass soon."

Trowa looked at him, frowning, recalling how Quatre said 'our hospital', taking in his hospital shirt. He wanted to ask so much but Quatre's soft palm covered his mouth.

"No, don't talk! You must not. You have to rest, have to be quiet."

I don't want to be quiet, Trowa thought, I almost went too far into quietness. He caught Quatre's hands and pulled him closer - and after a little resistance the boy climbed on his bed, pressed towards him. Quatre's thin arms wrapped around Trowa's neck. He felt Quatre's warm breath tickle on his neck and moved getting even closer.

"Careful, you'll hurt yourself," Quatre said insistently - and then whispered in a small voice, his fingertips touching Trowa's face tentatively. "Please get well, okay?"

It was bliss; he could spend all his life like that, with Quatre pressed to his side, feeling the boy's skinny form in his arms, with fluttering touching of Quatre's fingers on his face. But there was something he needed to say, so, he moved to be able to face Quatre.

"Will you stay with me forever?" he asked. "Please don't leave me."

Dark-blue of Quatre's eyes was so deep he could drown there - wanted to drown there.

"But how..." Quatre started and Trowa knew what he was going to ask - and it was easy to answer.

"I left the Order."

"Oh."

"It's nothing. Will you just be with me?"

Quatre's arms tighten around him - and he knew it was the answer, knew it when Quatre pressed his head to Trowa's shoulder, his hot forehead and soft hair against Trowa's collarbones. But he still was glad when he heard the boy whisper quietly with his face hidden:

"Of course, Trowa. Of course, I will."

To be continued

**__**

Well, you don't think that's all, do you? There are two more chapters. If you want them, that is :-) Another twist of fate... And then there are Treize, Zechs and Wufei, don't forget about them :-) So, shall we continue?


	13. Part 13

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 13

Sometimes at night Trowa woke up in a fit of unreasonable fear when it all seemed an illusion to him, seemed that he'd never found Quatre. But then he looked at the boy, curled in the next bed, and a glowing feeling of completeness came to him again. He'd never been happier in his life. He got Quatre back - and Trowa knew he wouldn't make another mistake like losing him once again. Everything else was almost dispensable. They had nowhere to go; it was, maybe, days till Trowa would recover and it wouldn't be possible to stay at the hospital. They had no money. They actually had no past - well, the only past Trowa had was with Misques and he knew he would never go back to them.

"What shall we d-do?" he asked Quatre. His stammering almost passed, recurring just occasionally.

"Something. Find a job. Find a flat. Live." Quatre's thumb pressed to his lips to make him silent and it distracted Trowa from any arguments he might have. He pulled Quatre in his arms and kissed; he could never have enough of the boy's closeness, of feeling Quatre's fragile body and soft skin, of Quatre's ability to kiss so, that Trowa forgot how to breathe and felt wonderfully lightheaded after that.

They'd made love two days after Trowa got to the hospital. It was awkward, because Quatre insisted on his lying still - and Trowa just couldn't lie still. But the thought that they had so much time before them, would have chance to do it again and again filled him with wild, intoxicating joy.

Doctor Po and others at the hospital didn't seem to mind their affair. One of the nurses, a kind-looking elderly one, said to Trowa once:

"It's good he found you. He was always so sad, I thought he would never smile."

It looked like it worked out somehow with the vaccine for seizure-flu, and Trowa couldn't help seeing it as anything but a miracle; although what supreme forces could be so kind to him - certainly not the ones of Misques. It might be some Quatre's guardian angel.

It was early morning and Quatre was in Trowa's bed, his head on Trowa's chest. There was something going on TV but Trowa found it difficult to concentrate while Quatre's small cold feet rubbed against his. He cast a glance at Quatre and caught a sly sparkle of dark-blue eyes under the long eyelashes.

"I'm just trying to get warm," Quatre grinned. And at the next moment the door opened and Doctor Po walked in. Her usually serene face had a strange confused expression - and there were two men in civil clothes behind her.

"Quatre." Her hands were clasped tightly, in a gesture so nervous that Trowa felt suddenly disturbed. "There's someone who wants to see you."

The men stepped forward and Doctor Po backed away.

"Quatre Winner. You're under arrest."

It was crazy. They couldn't mean it. What for were they going to arrest him? Trowa saw Quatre look at them, his head raised from Trowa's chest, a pink trace left on his cheek from crumpled material.

"Before you ask whether it's a joke or a mistake," one of the men said, "here's the warrant."

Trowa felt his arm tighten around Quatre involuntarily, as if by holding the boy hard enough he could make these crazy people go away. What the fuck was it all about? Quatre wasn't supposed to have anything to do with police at all. Some officials had visited Trowa when there had been an investigation about the explosion - but Quatre wasn't involved in anything.

The boy's eyes were so huge and dark, and there was such a weird expression in them, Trowa couldn't figure it out. He felt Quatre move away and held him forcefully.

"No, wait. What's the charge?"

One of the men was younger, the other old and fat, with hoarse irritated voice.

"Prostitution."

"What the hell?" Trowa didn't know whether he was more angry or astonished. It was so ridiculous he even felt some kind of relief. "Does he look like a prostitute or anything? He's at the hospital if you didn't notice."

"The statute of limitation for this crime is three years. Three years didn't pass since the last act - so, we have every reason to arrest him."

The twisted logic of that made him feel creepy. And he knew there must've been something else, they couldn't bother just with this absurd accusation. 

"You don't have any evidence against him."

"Oh yes, we do," the younger man said with a short smile. "The most solid evidence there can be. His own confession."

Trowa felt Quatre sit up, move away from him - and felt sudden emptiness of not having the boy close any more. As if Trowa's arms could really protect him... The man turned his wrist, his watch showing a small screen, and Trowa heard Quatre's voice, distorted slightly with recording but completely recognizable.

__

"I was with a client... Morphs were after the man, I think, so, they arrested us together."

"Did you know the man?" It was Treize's voice, quiet and even.

__

"Barely. He picked me up once or twice before."

"You mean he bought your services?"

"Yes."

So, it was a part of Quatre's statement - the one Trowa had never heard, the one Treize had sent wherever he wanted to send it. Trowa felt anger fill him. They didn't have right to use it - how dared they? Quatre's face was flushed, his eyes cast down - and Trowa saw him move a little more away unconsciously.

No, don't go, he wanted to scream. There's nothing to be ashamed of - it's them who should've felt shame!

"He told it all on his own accord," the fat man said with satisfaction. "We usually have to spend more time coaxing criminals into confession. But the little fool made it all so easy for us."

The man's voice, open contempt in it made heat rushed in Trowa's face; he clenched his fists. The man must've noticed it because a paralyzer, much similar to the one Misques used, appeared in his hand.

"Don't move, kid. Or you'll get really, really hurt. You know what's the difference between a police model and a standard one? Ours works much faster - but has a side effect: hurts like hell. All right, let's take him, Ramirez."

The younger man moved towards the bed and Trowa tensed, ready to lash. He was pretty sure he would be able to take the man down before the other one would shoot. But how to let Quatre know he should run?

He cast a look at Quatre and knew suddenly that it wouldn't work. Quatre wouldn't try to escape. And anyway, where would he go? To become a fugitive, hunted by police? Yet the thought of these men taking Quatre away was splittingly painful.

"Don't try to play smart," the man said. "Did you hear what I said? I'll shoot if you just move a finger."

A dark-blue flash of Quatre's eyes was desperate, pleading as he turned back.

"Please, Trowa. Don't do anything. I'll go with them."

He didn't know what to say; he couldn't be quite reasonable. Quatre gave him a look, both stern and imploring, and got up from the bed.

"Let's not get it trouble, please, Trowa. I'm sure they'll let me go soon."

"Five years," the fat man said. "I can promise, it won't seem soon for you. Five years of working camps is the usual sentence for your kind of crime."

The man wanted to provoke him, Trowa thought. The other one, Ramirez, looked at his colleague with some distaste on chiseled face.

"Come on, Parker. There's no need to intimidate him."

He had cuffs in his hand.

"I need to dress," Quatre said.

"No way. He'll bolt," Parker shook his head adamantly.

"I can keep a look on him," Ramirez suggested.

"No. I'll do it myself."

"Please, Trowa," Quatre said in a very quiet voice. "Don't move."

"Don't," Ramirez confirmed. "Believe me, you don't want your friend to be hurt as well, right? And Parker is a mean bastard."

Oh please; not 'good cop/bad cop' thing. Quatre walked out of the room and Parker with him, and Ramirez stayed, looking down at Trowa with thoughtful expression.

"Your friend seems to be a reasonable guy," he said finally. "It might... be helpful."

"For God's sake..." It was keenly humiliating not to be able to express his anger in anything but impotent words. "What are you doing, guys? There's no more delinquency in the city that you're going after prostitutes? The fuckin' article probably didn't apply for last ten years!"

"But it exists," Ramirez said. "And sometimes it can be quite handy."

"Handy?"

"For example if the statement with confession was recorded in Treize Khushrenada's camp."

Everything suddenly made sense - including why the men were in civil, not in police uniform.

"You're ISS?" Trowa asked - but he surely knew the answer.

"Right. Interplanetary Security Service. And if your friend cooperates with us, he'll get off without a scratch. If not... Working camps on Balsa are an icky place, believe me."

"Oh God." He could say nothing else; he almost couldn't breathe with shock. Ramirez looked at him with pensive, distant expression. And then he bent towards Trowa and said:

"A good lawyer can probably get your friend out. But you don't have a good lawyer, do you?"

***********************************************************

The man, Parker, had that sickening manner of eyeing me. I could read every thought of his, every idea of what he would like to do with me; not that I would like to dwell on it. It was good at last that he kept his hands to himself when I changed my clothes - and in the car he probably felt self-conscious before his companion. Which was lucky for me; if I could only manage to stay away from him later...

I wasn't going to slip into panic; I repeated it to myself so many times that it sounded like mantra. No matter how little control over the situation I had - I could at least keep control over myself. Thinking about Trowa's forlorn, darkened eyes as I'd seen him the last time before being taken away made me bite my lip. It hurt to see him upset; he didn't deserve it to happen to him. 

At the first moment, when they'd said they were going to arrest me, I thought it was because of my father, that his enemies reached even Adrianopolis in search for him and for anyone and anything that could be used against him. I didn't know whether my father was alive or dead but I knew that people who wanted to destroy him would stop before nothing. Maybe, my sisters already suffered from their revenge.

Finding out that it was just that ridiculous charge of prostitution made me so relieved I almost couldn't take it seriously. Well, cuffs on my wrists surely made it less of a joke. And later, when Parker and Ramirez explained what they wanted from me, I guessed I might've really been in trouble.

"Treize Khushrenada's camp. What can you tell about it?"

"It's big and there's a lot of sand."

"Don't you dare to laugh at us!" Parker slapped his palm against the table. Too little to have an effect... at least he didn't slap me. "We'll laugh at you - when you take the first ship to Balsa and stay in mining pits for five years. Do you think your boyfriend will be waiting for you when you come back from there? *If* you come back."

"Just tell us everything you know," the other man said. He didn't sound so eager - either didn't care enough whether I answered or not, or it was the role he played. "How do they open corridors in protective shield?"

They didn't know Trowa had been in Treize's camp as well, I realized. It made me feel almost dizzy with joy. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"All right," Parker said. I saw the paralyzer in his hand. The thing worked blinding fast, he'd been right about it. Next moment I was on the floor, all my muscles clenched in pain that spread through my body like wildfire. 

It was so bad... I only thought it was lucky the bastard didn't try it on Trowa. I didn't scream - but not because I could keep from it; I surely would - but my throat was paralyzed as well. Parker squatted near to me, his hand turning my face.

"I don't have any patience to smart-ass bitches as you are. When you're ready to talk, blink twice. You can move your eyelids, I know. Then Ramirez with give you a medicine."

I didn't blink; what I really wanted to do was to spit in his face. But I couldn't do it - and it would be unreasonable anyway.

They talked some more - part-threatened, part-convinced, part-scolded me. Or, rather, Parker talked, and Ramirez inserted well-placed and completely necessary remarks like:

"You know prisoners on Balsa lose all their teeth within first year? They have such shitty water there. How do you think your lover will like you then?"

I didn't blink.

"He's probably just stupid," Parker said. "Who else but a stupid slut could set his own trap by recording the fuckin' statement?"

"If you think we need your help so much, Winner, you're wrong," Ramirez said. "It's rather that we give you a chance to deserve forgiveness. Khushrenada's days are numbered. That little information that you have will probably spare some lives when he's arrested."

I didn't know how much time passed; it could be hours. Pain never subsided; I wondered if it was going to pass by itself or one needed a medicine Parker had talked about. And whether they were intended to give me that medicine. My vision blurred; tears leaked from my eyes and I could neither stop nor wipe them.

"Don't think you can be more stubborn than we are," Parker said. "You'll either help us and walk out of here - or you won't walk out of here at all. Time is on our side."

"And the paralyzer leaves no traces," Ramirez added.

Eventually it was him who injected me some stuff, and pain abated slowly as I could move again. My head ached and my body felt weak and awkward as I sat up on the floor.

"Take him to the cell," Parker said with distaste. Ramirez himself took me there, talking in a quiet voice all the way.

"Why don't you cooperate? I thought you would catch it in the air what's profitable for you. Don't you want to see your lover again?"

It hurt so much to think about Trowa; I wanted to see him... wanted nothing more than to see him. 

"I don't suppose you have some fancy stuff in your head about 'loyalty' and 'betrayal', do you? You already got in trouble because of Khushrenada - now it depends on you to save yourself."

I gave him a glance and didn't say anything. He didn't know that Treize had saved me and Trowa, that I owed everything to him. And it was better that Ramirez knew nothing; I was going to guard my memories from him as long as I could.

"You disappoint me," he said. "Do you know Parker already hinted me that he would appreciate it if I left you two tete-a-tete when you're in paralysis? I might want to be nice to my partner."

I wanted to say 'fuck you' but his words really distressed me so. I knew he could do it safely; no one would even know. This thought made me feel desperate.

I was almost relieved when Ramirez left me alone in the cell. Locked again... very funny: just a month passed and I exchanged morphs' prison to human one. At least it was not cold there.

Trowa, I thought, I'm sorry. I miss you so much. 

It was heart-wrenching, to think about him. 

But, Trowa, I can't do what they want from me. Will you understand me?

* * *

They were right - time was on their side. It took two days to wear my resoluteness so thin that a little more and I was ready to start talking. Another push - and I would spill everything I knew, say things I would regret. 

I don't want to recall it.

On the third day warders came for me. I moved in half-daze; the thought of seeing Parker and Ramirez again filled me with helpless dread. I barely noticed it was a different room they took me to - or, rather, I was so despaired it didn't matter for me. It took me a real effort to stay upright.

What I saw first was that those two were not there. And then a man sitting at the table got up - and everything about him was so familiar - his straight back and big hands and piercing eyes - that my body reacted before my mind could deny it as impossible. I threw myself at him, wrapped my arms around him, and he picked me up from the floor effortlessly.

"Dad," I said. "Dad."

For a while he didn't let me go - and I couldn't break away from him, as if without clinging to him it meant that the feeling of his strong arms around me would become an illusion. Finally he put me down and held on outstretched arms.

"Hasn't he grown so much?"

"Oh yes. Hey, little brother, don't you notice me?"

There was a young smiling woman next to my father, and my jaw dropped.

"Iria! You changed the hairstyle. You changed so much..."

"You bet I did," she laughed, cuddling me. Of course, it was her; I hadn't known how much I missed her soft hands and cozy smell and fluttering kisses. She was big; I could feel her round belly pressed to mine as she hugged me - she was pregnant.

I looked around; a part of me wondered if it was some beautiful dream - and then everything was possible there, I might've missed someone else. But there was just an unfamiliar man sitting at the table.

"And Milady?" I asked. Dad and Iria looked at each other.

"She's okay. She'll be with us, too."

"Son..." Dad pulled me closer again, patted my back. Now I recognized his rather awkward movements when it came to hugging - so, he probably was real. "Finally I found all of my children."

"You don't need to hide any more?" I asked. It was Iria who answered, her eyes glowing.

"Not at all! The Executive Board granted him asylum. There are so many changes. We'll probably go home soon, on our planet. There will be elections..."

"It's too early to talk about it, Iria," father said reticently. "I don't know if I want to participate in those elections."

Iria just smiled, and I smiled, too. Surely he would; my father couldn't live without politics. It had been his involvement that sent him first in exile and then put his life in such danger.

"Dad became legal already a year ago," Iria continued; her arm lay around my shoulder, her soft hand brushing my hair. "First he found me, then Milady - and now you. Oh, we looked for you so much! Only when someone checked for your name in the system, we could track you."

So, both Parker and Ramirez and my family found me the same way - after Megan had checked for my insurance. It was rather ironic.

Iria's words reminded me painfully what I tried not to remember. They looked for me... But they didn't know what I had become. If they had, they wouldn't have looked for me. I dishonored them so much. I withdrew from Iria quietly, freed from her arm. She looked at me with that breathtakingly kind smile of hers. It hurt to look at her, at my father's serious, gentle eyes. Their gazes would change when I told them. But I had to tell, I had no right to steal their kindness. Iria was first to feel that something was wrong.

"What happened, Quatre?"

"I..." I didn't know how to say that. "Dad, Iria, I... I wasn't like you think I was. I let you down... I was a..."

"Oh come on, Quatre, stop it!" Iria pulled me to herself suddenly, her arms around my neck. The softness of her body was so accepting, and her hand tucking a strand of my hair so tender. I heard her whisper in my ear. "You don't need to tell anything. Dad knows it. We saw the statement you recorded for Khushrenada. That's how we knew you were alive."

So, they knew - and they still wanted to find me? The thought was so enormous that I shivered. Iria didn't let me go, holding me tighter. And then I couldn't stand it any more. Tears ran from my eyes. She didn't say anything, just hugged me and patted my back.

Finally I wiped my eyes and looked up.

"It's my fault." My father looked somewhere above me and the corner of his mouth was twitching. "It's because of my ambition I lost all of you for those years, such difficult years. But I won't lose you again."

"We'll take you out of here," Iria said brightly. "It's Mr. Anderson, your lawyer." The man looked up at me from the laptop in front of him.

"Give me forty-eight hours," he said, "and I'll clear him of all charges."

* * *

Mr. Anderson was as good as his word. Two days later I stood at a long expensive air-car with my father and sister. I'd never seen Parker and Ramirez again.

"We're going to Rochengen," Iria beamed at me. "Dad got an estate there. You won't believe it - it's huge! There're horses there. You have to see it."

"Quatre *is* going to see it," father said. "But first to the hotel. You have to change your clothes."

It was so good to be with them; it was so good to be out. I didn't want to look at the prison building again.

"I won't go anywhere without Trowa," I said. My voice sounded suspiciously trembling. What if they didn't agree? They had accepted me, with my past - but what if they thought it would be too much? I looked at them stubbornly. They exchanged a glance; I understood they probably knew something.

"By all means," father said. "Your friend can go with us."

"He's more than a friend." I felt so relieved with his words and yet I wanted him not to misunderstand me. My life was like a kaleidoscope recently, all broken glass - but there was the only thing that was constant there. I probably could live without anything else - but not without Trowa.

"All right," father said, waving his hand.

In the car, Iria whispered in my ear, laughing:

"You've changed, little brother. You've become so earnest. But trust me, you don't need to put everything out loud with dad."

"Losing all of you puts things into another prospect." Dad was talking, sitting in the front seat. "It makes one see things more clearly, children. There's nothing that can make me lose you once more."

So, I met Trowa again - something I thought would never happen. I had him with me again. During the flight to Rochengen, I couldn't let his hand go, even when I fell asleep. And when I woke up, he still was with me and his hand was clenched on mine tightly.

Rochengen was a green planet, one of rather few with minimal industry there, which made it so popular for having a villa or a house there. The estate was really big, the house completely beautiful, built in a way that subtly reminded about our old house on my native planet.

Milady wasn't there. But I had a video channel to her as soon as we arrived. She was on Vesta, in a clinic for drug-addicts, and some things in my father's words became clearer for me. 

"She'll come back home in a couple of months," Iria said. "It takes time. And she'll have to be careful for all her life."

My father was talking to Trowa in his study. I felt painfully nervous looking at my watch - and a bit angry.

"What's the point of talking to him?"

"Don't worry." Iria walked in with two glasses of carrot juice and shoved me one of them. "Drink this, it's full of vitamins. Dad won't say anything bad. He's just... you know - wants to know your significant other better."

"I'm not going to marry Trowa," I muttered. Iria giggled. She looked so peaceful in her blue wide dress, matching the color of her eyes so well. For a moment her gaze acquired a distant look, as if she listened to something inside her.

"Iria, is it a boy or a girl?" I asked.

"A boy." She smiled and yet something changed in her eyes. I hesitated whether I could ask the next question. Some things might've better stayed unsaid - but I thought I still needed to ask. 

"And the father?"

Seriousness in her eyes was upsetting to see; but there was no hurt, just some sadness there.

"It was in-vitro fertilization. Quatre..." It looked like she wanted to say something, and then the door of my father's study finally opened and Trowa walked out. "We'll talk later. Here's... your friend."

I couldn't keep myself away from Trowa, grabbed his hand and pulled after me. In our room, some time later, I lay next to Trowa, looking at his face under a wave of long bangs. The strands were tousled and Trowa's lips were puffy. I kissed him again.

"What did he say to you?"

"Oh... what education I got and stuff like that. He said you need to study, you've lost at least three years."

"I won't go to school!" I started shivering. To go to some boarding school, to be locked up there - and without Trowa... I couldn't let it happen. Trowa gave me a look and then his arm tightened around me.

"Don't get so nervous. You don't need to if you don't want. You can study by correspondence - and I'll... I can help you."

I held onto him. His gaze was so serious. I caught his hand and pressed his fingers to my lips.

"You don't like it here, do you?" I asked.

I felt a tiny instinctive movement of his body and it was the only thing that gave him away, because his voice was completely quiet.

"Why? I do. It's your home."

"But you..."

"I just... it's a bit strange... that your father should support me."

"Oh please..." I felt another seizure of panic. "You're not going to leave, are you? Please, we'll find some way, it'll get better - just don't leave, okay? I just need a bit more time..."

I wasn't sure what I was talking about but all I knew was that I had to make him stay. There were small tremors going through my body and Trowa ran his hand over my back, along the line of vertebrae. It was so good to feel him touch me, to be close to him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly. "I... I don't think I can bear to go, anyway."

I nodded and put my head on his chest. Everything was going to be all right - if he just stayed.

I was afraid Trowa would think me too clinging if I held his hand when going to sleep, so, I struggled with myself and let him go. But in darkness he moved closer to me and I felt his fingers intertwine with mine. 

* * *

I was at the library, struggling with math books that Trowa decided I should've repeated before going forward. Repeated! I forgot them so thoroughly during three years that I might've as well started learning them anew. Then the door opened and I saw dad and Iria come in. Iria's eyes were swollen with tears, and my heart sank. I didn't want to wonder what happened.

"I have to talk to you, Quatre," father said seriously, sitting down in front of me. Iria stayed on her feet, blowing her nose. "It's about the situation in our family."

"Dad, you don't need to! I didn't want him to, Quatre!" Iria looked desperately at me. I felt slightly sick. 

So, that was it. Things came to a conclusion faster than I expected - faster than I promised to Trowa they would. There was no need to look for some way to make Trowa happy here because everything was resolved for me. Dad was going to tell me they couldn't put up with my having an affair with another man, that it was inappropriate for Winner family.

Shit; I'd spent just three days at home - I just started getting used to be here. But one thing I knew for sure: I could live without anything and anyone - but I couldn't live without Trowa. 

I made a few deep breaths, preparing myself to what I was going to hear. Sickness abated.

"Quatre," father looked at me seriously. "You know that child Iria carries... When we thought you were dead... Well, we decided that we needed a heir for the family."

"Milady can't have babies," Iria added in a voice thick with crying. "So, there was no other way."

"The child was genetically altered to have enhanced intellect and abilities - to make him a perfect heir for Winner family. His political and diplomatic talents will be outstanding. I was going to pass him all my knowledge and experience."

"It was only because we couldn't find you, little brother," Iria sobbed.

It started downing on me. I looked up at Iria, trying to meet her eyes - but she looked away.

"Quatre," father said in a solemn way. "I want you to understand. We can't be any happier that we found you. You're my son, you'll always be my son, no matter what happens. But at the present, genetic alterations achieve such success - lay the foundation for a personality that will match the task perfectly."

"Not a word more!" Iria suddenly went red and angry and stopped crying. "Quatre is at home now, what to talk about?!"

I got up and walked up to her, hugged her. She clenched my hand; her fingers were icy.

"I just want to say," my father continued, "that while I never judge you, son, for everything that happened... the way of life you've chosen at the current moment... is neither appropriate for a future politician nor secures descendents for the family."

I almost chuckled when I heard how he put it.

"You can either take both rights and obligations of a heir or..."

"Father!" Iria cried out.

"Shh, don't cry," I patted her, "it's not good for the baby. Dad..." for a moment I almost couldn't talk, relief was so great. If it were the worst thing that was going to happen, I would be the luckiest person in the world. "Dad, I don't want to be a heir. I never wanted. I think there's something wrong with my... personality," I grinned. "I'll be completely happy if Iria's child is be a heir."

"Don't say that..." Iria sobbed again and I pressed her to me. My father looked at me in the way that made him seem both relieved and exasperated.

"You just say it like that?"

"How am I supposed to say that?" I asked quietly.

"All right." He sighed and relaxed somehow. "All right. If it's what you want, Quatre. You, and Iria, and Milady are always going to have a place in my heart."

I nodded; I barely could stay serious - something was singing inside me. I probably didn't feel that elated since we arrived home.

"Quatre," Iria turned to me, tears drying on her cheeks. "Thank you."

"Thank *you*," I took her face in my hands and kissed her, and she tucked my hair away behind my ears. The gesture was so Iria-like that I felt everything was going to be all right. My father squeezed my shoulder briefly and they walked out - but I couldn't study again. I ran out of the library and dashed to the garden.

"Trowa! Trowa!"

He looked up at me from a book on his lap. His lips and fingers were stained in orange-red from the berries he was eating. I flopped on him, straddling his thighs.

"What, have you already learned everything?" His book fell on the ground but he couldn't reach for it, with me sitting on him like that.

"Everything," I lied and caught his fingers in my mouth. They tasted sweet and sour. "Now... we can... go riding."

He looked at me with that thoughtful gaze on his and then said in a quiet voice:

"No... if you wiggle some more like that - we won't go anywhere."

He never stopped surprising me. I doubled with laughter, then jumped down from him and pulled him after me.

"Let's go. I'll take Pearl and you'll take Orlov."

Pearl was a white horse and Trowa used to ride a bay stallion. He sent Orlov in gallop and I had to chase him. Later, when we were on the hill and the house was barely visible between the trees, I told him what happened.

"You look way too happy for someone who'd just been disinherited," he said and dismounted. I got down on the ground, too. He kissed me, holding my face, and then his hands slid down, fumbling with my clothes. 

His eyes with widened pupils, black in green, were so beautiful I almost couldn't bear to look at him. So, I gave up and closed my eyes, just felt what he was doing: the draft of cool air on my skin and warmth of his lips and heat of his body pressed to mine. Then he slipped down on his knees and I felt his arms around my waist, holding and cradling me. And then his lips enveloped my shaft.

I threaded my fingers through his hair. It became difficult to stand, my legs went weak - but Trowa supported me. And it was absolutely impossible to be silent - but it was not necessary as well, so, I called his name and sobbed when coming. And later he called my name in the breathless, desperate voice of his, as I felt him moving inside me and looked at his face against the cornflower blue of the sky.

It was dusk when we finally rode back. The house was like a white shadow, fluttering with its open windows and doors and light curtains swaying in the wind. We walked through the hall. The TV was on; I heard a familiar name first and only then realized what was said.

"A long elaborated operation on the capture of the terrorist # 1 is finished. The trap is shut. Several hours ago Treize Khushrenada and six other members of the brigade have been arrested by United Force..."

I saw Wufei on the screen suddenly, his lips white and his face frozen as soldiers held him, wrenched his arms behind his back. He looked like he was going to lash out or to collapse - but he did neither eventually. Past him, men carried stretchers with plastic-covered bodies, giving a glimpse of UF uniform or insurrectionists' fatigue now and then. There were other captives and I recognized their faces. No Doctor J - but J hardly ever went on the missions.

And then Treize was there, his wrists shackled behind his back - but soldiers still gripped his arms firmly. His eyes were wide open and had a strange empty look in them as he turned his head as if looking for something but not finding it. He stumbled against the debris on the floor and would fall if the men didn't shake him upright. There was a kind of surprise on his face.

I turned to Trowa and met his gaze, darkened on the pale face. He must've read the question in my eyes and whispered the answer I almost knew already:

"He's blind."

To be continued

**__**

Thanks and hugs for all the beautiful reviews! You're the best, people! The last chapter will be up *tomorrow* :-)


	14. Part 14

SWEET DARKNESS

Part 14

"I cannot keep you from going there." The way Mr. Winner said it, he surely would like to do it. "But I frankly don't see what you're going to do there."

"I don't see how we can just stay here and wait for a result." Quatre didn't look at his father, nibbling his lip nervously - and his defensive stance affected Trowa as it always did, making him want to stand by Quatre, to prove him he wasn't alone. It was unreasonable: Quatre didn't need his interference - and Trowa again reminded himself not to appear overprotective. 

He wished he had a better knowledge of how to express his feelings, wouldn't swing to and fro between being obtrusive and aloof. And there was so much he felt; for all those years he'd spent with Misques he didn't even know there was so much there. He just didn't have a good grip on his expressing things - and it was a constant source of disquiet for him. What if Quatre found him annoying? What if something went wrong between them?

"What result, son?" Mr. Winner said with a wince of exasperation. "It's all pretty obvious. The Executive Board got itself in a very inconvenient position. They should've let morphs get Khushrenada - it would leave their own hands clean at least. I don't imagine how they are going to sentence him without turning him into a martyr. I won't be surprised if there is no any trial. Some accident - and both Marotania will be satisfied, and the EB will save its face."

There was a weird logic in it, Trowa had to admit it. The calm, reasonable voice of Mr. Winner made him feel uneasy, disturbed.

"But if there is a trial, our evidence can be useful for Treize."

"Why do you think they'll let give any evidence, Quatre? Nothing will depend on the things you'll say."

"We'd rather go there," Quatre said flatly - and somehow it sounded final.

"I put money on your account, so, you can use it in any way you want. I just wish you showed your determination in other things," Mr. Winner added.

A quiet smile fluttered on Quatre's lips as he looked up. There was still some dismay in his eyes, as knowing that he disappointed his father was never easy, but Quatre seemed resolute.

"Thank you, dad." 

"Just don't get in trouble," his father muttered. "The Earth is a nasty place and I expect all kinds of weirdos visit Moscow for this occasion."

"Ugh-ghu." Now Quatre's eyes glowed.

For one thing, Mr. Winner was right; the city was full. The passenger ship Trowa and Quatre took had to line for landing for over than sixteen hours.

"I wonder why all those people want to be here," Trowa said once.

"Probably an entertainment. Of course, there are some - from Northern Coalition, for example - who really hate morphs and for whom Treize is a hero. But for the rest... many had never even met morphs. So, it's just hot news to follow."

On the TV screen, they watched how Treize found his place by touch in the transparent box of super-durable plastic. His face had a strained, concentrated expression as if he constantly expected some trick, his eyes unblinking. 

He didn't belong there, Trowa thought feeling how his fists clenched tightly. He recalled Treize from the time on the sand planet - his animated face, his voice full of excitement as he talked about their future, their victory. Now twenty of his people were dead, six arrested - and others blockaded in the camp, presumably without a chance to break out. 

It wasn't right, it shouldn't have been like that... The feeling of utter helplessness made Trowa feel furious - and he was afraid of thinking how Treize could feel; only he knew too well how.

Several weeks ago, when Trowa had left the camp of the insurrectionists, he wondered whether he'd see Treize again. He didn't expect it would be like this; he would give everything for not seeing Treize this way, in this state. And Treize... Treize would possibly prefer to be dead than to be there, wouldn't he?

***********************************************************

With time, it grew easier to find his place in the box. Maybe, in a couple of weeks he'd be doing it in quite a dignified manner, Treize thought wryly. The seat was narrow and as soon as he occupied it, force cuffs locked on his wrists and ankles, fastening him to the place. Another force ring went around his waist. His skin tingled with the touch, and complete immobility was excruciating; he couldn't get used to it. Combined with complete darkness, it seemed sometimes more than he could bear.

It was nothing; he didn't have to give away that it bothered him. But Treize knew his nostrils flared all the same and he tended to hyperventilate. Taking himself under control demanded almost more strength than he had - but he managed it. He had to - if not for himself than for his boy...

Wufei was in the next box. If Treize could see, he would be able to see him - if not to touch or hear: the sound in the boxes was switched off when they didn't answer questions. Thinking about it made him regret the loss of sight with special acuteness. Wufei was so close; and so unreachable.

Sometimes he thought he would give everything just for touching Wufei again, for holding the boy's hand. It was exaggeration, of course, there were things Treize wouldn't do for any promise, any award - like agreeing to admit himself guilty, for example. But as time went, as the parody of the trial continued, and he stayed in darkness and loneliness, his resoluteness was wavering. And it frightened Treize most of all.

It would be such a cruel irony that, if he broke, it wouldn't be for the hardships he had to go through. His life as an outcast was never easy and he didn't expect it to be; he accepted everything: loss of his name, being called a criminal, being hunted.

He even could deal with his last failure. The source that had given them information for so many successful operations turned out to be a provocateur. Treize didn't know if it was a set-up from the very beginning - he didn't want to believe in it, really - or if the source got captured and only his name used. In either case, it was Treize's fault, and the result was disastrous.

He wished it had been a real bomb, not a blinding bomb that had blown up then. But they probably intended to take him alive; well, they succeeded. Maybe, succeeded more than they planned. Darkness turned out to be an ordeal that he found the most difficult to bear.

It drove him to despair that the simplest things became so cumbersome - like shaving or trimming his fingernails. Every time before going to the courtroom he spent an hour checking his face and clothes by touch to make sure there was no untidiness, nothing that would make him laughable, stupid. He still kept being nervous - and it weakened him more than anything else.

Soon after the arrest, a doctor checked his eyes. Treize was not informed about the verdict. He didn't know what kind exactly the blinding bomb was but he knew that the vision could be recovered if there was immediate treatment. Maybe, he would've had to wear lens glasses, like Doctor J did, but at least he would've seen again. 

In any case, he didn't get any treatment. But it didn't surprise him, after all. He was rather amazed they hadn't used the chance of declaring him insane after psychiatric expertise. But they went after the second best thing. 

"Witness, what can you tell about the state of discipline in the camp?"

"I'm not sure it could be called discipline." It was one of his men who got arrested with him; the only one who testified. 

"Explain yourself, witness."

"Captain Khushrenada neglected control over the camp. He was more preoccupied with the relations between him and his lover... or drinking. Things were falling apart. I'm surprised we lasted this long."

His heart was pounding so hard the man's words sounded distant. He did manage to keep his face blank, though - or he hoped so. He knew there were cameras watching him, catching every change of his expression.

Oh if only he could say that the man - the traitor - lied. The worst thing was that probably everything in his words was true. Drinking, going crazy over Wufei, getting into that affair with the morph... He, Treize, failed his people. And now he didn't have a chance to die as a hero.

He knew he wouldn't be sentenced. Not to death, anyway. Death would return him some dignity. But as he was - blind, with a reputation of a drunk and a madman - he was not dangerous. They would show him mercy - would keep him alive.

The thought of it made a smile distort his lips, a smile that was as far from amused as it was possible. The Executive Board wanted to keep him alive... the conspirators, who, as he knew, were arranging an escape for him, wanted him alive. Morphs, who sent assassins already trying to kill him twice, wanted him dead... Nobody asked him what he wanted.

But the truth was Treize wasn't sure he had strength left to want anything at all.

***********************************************************

It was impossible to get a place in the courtroom, of course. Every morning, as the prisoners were brought to the session, a special shield corridor was built to keep the crowds away. And presumably to prevent another attempt of assassination.

Mr. Winner had been right about one more thing - no one was going to listen to their evidence; but somehow Trowa didn't find it surprising. Eventually he and Quatre managed to see a secretary of Treize's attorney. The woman looked at them with tired eyes and said:

"Do you know how many people come here claiming they can say something important about Treize Khushrenada? Do you think anything that you say can make any difference?"

"It seemed what I could say made some difference when they were after Treize," Quatre said angrily. He rubbed his arms unconsciously - in the way he acquired after his arrest by ISS - as if he was cold. Trowa felt a kind of stifled despair, seeing it - knowing that even if Quatre never talked about what he'd been through there and seemed to be happy to forget it, his body still remembered it. 

The secretary did write down their names and data finally and promised to call but Trowa didn't put much hope on it. He had a feeling of something irreparable happening. Every day as this disgraceful trial continued, something was shattered - around... inside him.

They walked to the court building daily; not that it could change anything - but the feeling of anxiety was too strong to stay at the hotel. There were always people around, despite cold weather - a grey crowd fluctuating in the street. Maybe, some of those people were there just to be a part of a mass, just to feel others around - and Trowa thought it was not so wrong about him as well. Among people his helplessness was not so choking.

He felt Quatre's thin arm wrapped around his waist as the boy held him tightly. Not far away from them, on the border of the porch, a boy-preacher recounted the Bible:

"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these..."

Wet snow fell on the preacher's bare arms and legs and thawed quickly. The boy's face, tilted up, under tangled bangs of dark hair, was enraptured - as if he could see something no one else could.

Treize used to have the same kind of look in his eyes; not so mad - but with slight edge of distraction in it. Trowa thought it'd been what made people follow Treize - that Treize made them believe he could see more than they could, see a bigger picture.

This look was gone now; and Treize couldn't see anything any more.

Several long sleek looking air-cars landed at the building. The police went alert again, keeping the crowd away. A group of tall, long-limbed people walked out. Trowa felt how next to him, Quatre grew very still, and as he looked at the boy, Quatre's gaze was wide and frozen, his eyes following the morphs unavoidably.

The crowd went still. No one dared to denunciate morphs openly - and morphs knew it. Trowa saw one of them lean towards his companion, say something with a deliberate smile on his face. Then the delegation entered the building.

The crowd burst out with yells and curses. Trowa saw Quatre wince a little, as if this noise caused him headache.

"Let's go?" 

Trowa nodded, feeling how Quatre's arm tightened around him.

They managed just a few steps as a man grabbed Trowa's arm, stopping him. They guy was probably drunk or just high on the shared emotions.

"Did you see those freaks? They should be put on the trial, not Captain Khushrenada! These monsters - they give me creeps, just breathing the same air with them! I would die if one of them touched me!"

Trowa put his hand on the man's wrist, freeing himself effortlessly. He felt Quatre being pushed against him and held onto the boy tighter. The man seemed displeased to be ignored.

"Why are you silent? Don't you want to say how much you hate morphs? Maybe, you're a morph-lover?"

He reached again, and Trowa saw Quatre push him away with sudden violence, heard the boy's voice distorted with fury:

"Don't touch him!"

"Hey, look at these two! They like morphs!"

Trowa yanked Quatre after himself but the crowd already went denser around them, not letting them go. Hostile faces around them made Trowa have a sick feeling of apprehension. He sensed Quatre's nervous shiver and shoved away a man who tried to grab the boy. A fist flew in his face but Trowa didn't have time to get frightened. A long thin shadow stepped between him and the attacker.

"Get out of here!" The voice was familiar but Trowa almost couldn't believe he heard it. The man who shielded him turned back briefly, allowing him a brief glimpse of dark-blue eyes and a mouth curved in a smile. "Ouch!"

The next blow got his protector in the face - and Trowa saw the attacker look at his hand, streaked bluish-purple, in surprise. It took just a few moments for the information to settle.

"There's a morph here! One of them is a morph!"

"Oh fuck."

Trowa grabbed Zechs' hand and pulled him away, pulled Quatre as well. At Trowa's side, a blond girl pushed through the crowd. As their eyes met, she gave Trowa a kind of conspiring look.

They managed to get out at last and then Zechs pushed him.

"Run!"

It was probably the best variant, judging on how aggressive the crowd was. So, they ran, until stopping on a quiet street, making sure no one followed them. Zechs looked down at them, smiling with split lips and without any regret in his eyes.

"You turned up... v-very timely," Trowa said in a slightly shaky voice. Zechs' smile became wider.

"As always, ne? Why can't you watch for yourself not to get in trouble?"

Trowa rolled up his eyes; Zechs' condescending way seemed to never change. The morph managed to be exasperating even at the moment when Trowa felt real joy at seeing him.

"You're all right, aren't you? You're bleeding," Quatre said. Zechs sniffed blood running from his nose and finally wiped it against his sleeve.

"Perfectly all right."

Was he? How was he going? Trowa looked at him almost greedily, trying to make sure that everything about Zechs was as it had to be. Zechs looked skinny; his hair was cut short and tangled - but somehow it made him look younger. Or, maybe, it was the look in his eyes - wide and bright on the angular face; the look of almost childish amazement.

"I see you aren't in the Order any more, Trowa Barton! How came?"

"You'd better tell how you are," Trowa said. "Hey, aren't you cold?"

He just noticed Zechs had only a thin sweater on, too little for such a freezy day.

"Nope." It hardly was true, judging on Zechs' bluish lips - but the morph smiled again eagerly. "I don't care for cold or hunger. Physical needs are nothing - body is nothing at all, that is."

Trowa frowned, meeting Zechs' excited look. The words sounded vaguely familiar. He followed Zechs' gaze and saw two other people in the street, standing a little away from them. The boy-preacher in his t-shirt and short pants and the girl whose gaze Trowa had met in the crowd. They stood on a distance - but in such a way that their connection to Zechs was obvious. Maybe, it was how they looked at him - the girl kindly and patiently, the boy with that mysterious captivating expression in his big fierce eyes.

"Your friends?" Quatre asked.

"More than friends. My sister and brother... and I'm like brother for them."

It looked like Zechs finally found a place and people where he belonged. Trowa found it somewhat sad that these people were a sect of a kind; he couldn't feel well about sects or orders after his breaking with Misques. But if Zechs was happy...

"I'm not crazy," Zechs said in an unexpectedly quiet voice. Some blood trickled from his nose again and he wiped it with his hand. The scars on his fingers were still crude, marring the tips harshly. He'd probably need a plastic surgery to make them look normal... but Trowa knew Zechs hardly would do it. "I know it's probably silly, all that stuff about not caring of body needs, not thinking about another day. But they... they accept me. They don't care what I was."

"I understand," Trowa said. Yes, Zechs was happy this way. Wasn't it the most important? "By the way, does you religion allow you to have a cup of coffee with us? And your brother and sister?"

"I don't think they will want to," Zechs shrugged. "But I'd like to. Wait a minute, okay?"

Trowa watched him as he walked up to the boy and the girl, said something. The boy kept this distant gaze of his but the girl smiled and nodded. Her frail hand touched Zechs' shoulder briefly, in a gesture of simple affection, obviously natural for her - and then the boy raised his hand and touched Zechs' face as well.

They looked like they belonged together, Trowa thought.

Zechs walked back to them, turning on the way, and Trowa heard his bright voice as he repeated:

"I'll be in an hour, Relena."

The girl and the boy wrapped their arms around each other's waists and walked away, under the falling snow they didn't seem to notice.

* * *

In a small cafe Zechs warmed up his hands on a mug of milk coffee. Trowa noticed people were staring at his fingers - but they surely didn't realize what kind of accident left those scars. Zechs seemed to guess his thoughts.

"I still didn't quite learn to use them deftly. Always forget they're a bit shorter than I'm used to."

There was no bitterness in his voice - and, maybe, that made Trowa feel even more disconcerted. 

"Why are you here?" he asked finally. "Do you live in Moscow?"

"We live wherever we want," Zechs shrugged. "Nomadic life, you know - when Heero decides he should see new places, we just move. You think I'm here to see Treize die, right?"

Frowning, Trowa shook his head. The truth was this thought came to his mind; but really, how could he blame Zechs for hating Treize?

"I don't hate him." Zechs, as usual, seemed to read his thoughts. "Yes, I'm here because of him - but I didn't come to gloat. I don't know if you believe me..." He caught a longer strand of his bangs and pulled it over his eyes, in a fitful gesture that was in a stark contrast with the calmness of his voice. "I don't want him to die."

It was strange but Trowa understood suddenly that he did believe.

"He... changed my life," Zechs said, letting a strand go. There was tension in his eyes but he didn't look away. "Well, it was rather a cruel change but... I don't regret it... I think I don't regret it."

"It's like... you don't have to wear the helmet any more, right?" Quatre said softly. Zechs' gaze became more peaceful.

"Exactly. He said once... that I was beautiful."

Trowa didn't want to wonder at what moment Treize could say this - if it was true at all.

"I still miss my people sometimes," Zechs said in a different, rather hard voice. "Some kind of nostalgia."

"What do Marotanians do here?" Quatre asked casually - almost too casually, Trowa thought. "The trial is not their jurisdiction."

"Maybe, they want to check whether their enemy is going to really get an appropriate punishment," Zechs smile wryly. "Or, maybe, they look for a base for future expansion."

It was half a joke but nobody laughed.

"One of them said to another," Quatre said, "that this place will be theirs in fifteen years."

"So, I might've made a wrong choice," Zechs said, and this time he chuckled. "Well, I guess I gotta go. Maybe, we'll see each other again."

"Sure," Trowa said. I hope so, he thought.

The sun had set and snow was falling thicker now. Zechs stood in the doorway for a moment, as if preparing himself for stepping out, then huddled and walked away.

Suddenly Trowa thought that it was unimportant whether he'd meet Zechs again and when. There was just too much uniting them - and he knew these threads would never be separated fully.

He felt Quatre's hand squeeze his under the table and met the boy's sad smiling eyes. He had an overwhelming wish to hold Quatre closer - close enough to make sure that nothing would separate them. 

***********************************************************

"Wufei Chang, how long do you know Treize Khushrenada?"

Till the last moment he couldn't believe Wufei would answer their questions. How could they make him? Why didn't he refuse? And when it finally happened, Treize felt more helpless than ever; if only he could see Wufei... if only he could stop the boy...

"Three and half years."

"How long do you have intimate relations?"

"Two years and eight months."

Such a flat voice; as if nothing was happening.

"That means that you were... how old when it started? Twelve?"

"Almost thirteen. But it was me who initiated it. Captain Khushrenada wouldn't... He thought it was too early. He thought I was traumatized."

There was a mere shadow of irony in Wufei's voice, making it sound painfully recognizable - so, that Treize felt he almost couldn't bear it.

"Were you traumatized?"

"Probably."

"What happened?"

"I was taken hostage by morphs."

"Marotanians."

"Marotanians."

"Wufei Chang, will you please open your shirt?"

Treize found himself striving up - and being thrown back by the force cuffs. It felt like his wrists were about to break - but the bonds didn't fail. Nothing he could say would be heard, with the sound switched off - he understood it; and yet for the first time he couldn't keep silent, begged knowing that even if Wufei couldn't hear him, he still could see... could possibly read his lips.

"Please. Please don't."

There was a pause. He didn't know if Wufei hesitated. There must've been some agreement between him and the lawyers, some plan - but Treize couldn't think about it now. 

"Please."

He heard a soft rustle of cloth and thought he didn't want to see it, was glad he couldn't see it. The sound, a joint breath the audience in the courtroom gave out, told him enough.

Then, almost three years ago, when he'd got Wufei back, was the last time he'd seen it, and then, unhealed, the traces of acid burns on Wufei's body were scarlet and seeping. Treize remembered Wufei at the infirmary, in bed - so small and so quiet; never crying, not even once, despite all that pain. He, Treize, cried then. And when he tried to take Wufei's hand in his - and the boy withdrew, rejection in his eyes, Treize wanted to kill every morph he could, wanted to put his life for it.

"How did you acquired these marks?"

"Marotanians left them."

"Have you been a prisoner of war in Marotania?"

"I wasn't a prisoner of war." Wufei's voice was hard and toneless. Another rustle of clothes - the jacket buttoned again, probably. "I was a hostage; they used me to make Captain Khushrenada comply with their demands."

"Didn't it work?"

"He didn't surrender to exchange places with me, if that's what you mean."

They wouldn't have let Wufei go anyway; Treize didn't need to say it - Wufei knew it very well. There was no way to come to an agreement with morphs - the only thing they understood was force. And finally it worked: he managed to free Wufei... 

By then acid excretions had destroyed thirty per cent of his skin. 

"How long did you spend in captivity?"

"Three weeks."

"You were raped, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Tortured?"

"Yes."

"Did Treize Khushrenada know about it?"

"Of course, he did. Of course."

"What was his reaction?"

"He was... he was enraged. He said he wouldn't stop as long as he could keep fighting morphs. And when the truce was signed, he said it was unthinkable. He said there could be no truce between him and these monsters."

It was not the truth... Or it was only half-truth. To reduce what he did to personal revenge... But Treize knew why Wufei was doing it. 

The boy was saving him from death. Whatever way they were going to present it - like temporary insanity or something - it was all done to mitigate his sentence. Who wouldn't go mad after seeing his young beloved defiled and maimed by the enemy? Who wouldn't understand this kind of hatred?

That's how they made Wufei testify - by promising that it would save Treize's life.

If they wanted to keep him alive so much, there must've been something wrong with it.

* * *

__

"This is another letter you'll never get. They probably think me mad that I ask them for paper and pencils all the time - what can a blind man write? And in any case, nothing will leave my cell: neither a note nor a letter. Well, I don't even try - and this one will go where all others do: ripped in pieces, small enough for no one to be able to read it. No one would be able to read it anyway, I think - the letters must be climbing on each other atrociously. It doesn't matter. Because as I write it, just for a moment, I can imagine that you'll be able to read it, you'll be able to hear what I say.

My dear boy, I think you forgave me - judging on how you tried to spare me on the trial. I know why you did it. Your courage and your self-sacrifice could win it for me, could change my sentence to just twenty of thirty years instead of death. I wonder if you know that *I* can't forgive myself I wish I could've prevented you from doing it - because it wasn't needed. I can't accept what you've done for me. I can't accept any mercy. There is no way for me to walk out of it. 

Remember I used to tell you about my dreams - of us being together, walking hand in hand in a beautiful place with green grass and blossoming roses around? Somewhere, there is probably this place. Somewhere but not here, not for us. 

I lost my case. I lost everything. When I think about living for more thirty or forty years with the thought of my failure... living in darkness, as a helpless invalid, I pray for it to be over in some way. Death... death would be such a relief. 

I would do it myself - I think it's possible to find the means, even under constant surveillance as I am; but that would be an ultimate proof of my weakness, wouldn't it? So, I just hope that someone else will do it to me, that another assault will be successful.

I don't know if you'd understand me - should you know what I think about. You'd probably call me a coward. Would you hate me? 

No, you wouldn't. My beloved, my beautiful one... Yesterday as you talked on the trial, I could hear your voice, even though I couldn't see your eyes - and your love was there. Your love that survived everything I had done to you. 

And I always fail you..."

***********************************************************

It had been shown so many times on TV that one could learn it second by second. The transparent cage and a slim, too pale man with reddish-brown hair sitting very straight in a narrow chair. His eyes, sky-blue, wide open, blinking slowly, looked absently at nowhere as another witness was interrogated.

No one had noticed it when it happened - just the camera fixed it impassively - how Treize's calm face distorted with a grimace of pain suddenly. There was no sound but his hands moved convulsively as if he tried to reach to his chest - and the cuffs held them in place. He lowered his head and his hair fell down hiding his face.

For another minute or two the trial went on as if nothing happened - and the another convulsion, much stronger than the first, racked his body. Now it was noticed. The audience startled and soldiers rushed into Treize's box immediately. He collapsed on the floor, spasming, as the cuffs were released. There was blood leaking from his mouth, and for once the sound in the box was not switched off, so, one could hear the tearing cries of pain he made.

There were enough cameras in the courtroom to monitor everything - and one of them followed Wufei's reaction closely - as the boy struggled to get up and was held by the cuffs, as he screamed something that had no sound in it.

He was held on his place all the way when doctor appeared - and Treize's body, still twitching violently, was placed on stretchers and carried away. Then Wufei stopped struggling and just looked, very quietly.

At night Trowa felt he couldn't stay in place; Quatre caught him on his usual pacing around the room, put his arms around Trowa's waist and held him for a few moments, then said:

"Let's get out."

The prison hospital was surrounded by people. There was a constant humming around but Trowa barely could distinguish words. They stood and waited. At three a.m. it was all over.

"They said if he lived till the morning, he had a chance to survive," someone said next to him. "It happens like that."

"They found the guard who did it - but the guy's a dummy, nothing more."

"Khushrenada was a murderer, he just paid his debts!" another voice yelled from far away.

Holding Quatre in the ring of his arms, Trowa felt the small trembling of the boy's body and pressed him harder.

"Without Treize, the trial doesn't make sense," Quatre said in a small voice that sounded level but Trowa wasn't deceived with it. "And the scandal... Maybe, they'll let others go. Maybe, they'll let Wufei go."

"I don't think so. And Wufei... I don't think he wants to be let go now."

I don't think he wants anything at all... The thought of how much Wufei lost made Trowa clench almost convulsively, his arms tightening on Quatre's shoulders so much that he might've hurt the boy. Quatre didn't seem to notice but Trowa made himself relax slightly. Treize was dead. Now it was too late to hope for something. Nothing could be changed. The thought of his own helplessness was burning; Trowa bit his lip, fighting the pain inside.

Quatre turned to him, without freeing from his arms. The boy's eyelids were red, his breath thick; he'd been crying all the time quietly.

Still having his arms around him, as if it could shield Quatre from whatever threatened him, Trowa walked him away from the crowd. A street just a little away was empty and dark and the noise from the hospital reached there like the rustle of sea. They stopped. Trowa kissed Quatre's face, feeling the wetness of the long eyelashes against his lips. The tears leaked again and Trowa kissed them away, their salt on his tongue - and felt his own tears sting his eyes and didn't resist, let them trickle.

A distant voice came, of a preacher - not Heero but another one - who kept raving at the hospital.

"Many sorrows shall be to the wicked; but he who trusts in the Lord, mercy shall surround him."

It was dark; street-lamps were broken or switched off, and Trowa barely could see Quatre's face - just the gleaming of his darkened eyes. Yet Trowa couldn't stop staring at him, holding the boy's face in his cupped hands - as if it could secure that Quatre was real and wouldn't go away.

"Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, you righteous; and shout for joy, all you upright in heart!"

The words were so creepy, so inappropriate that they made him shiver - and Quatre suddenly pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around Trowa. 

"Tell me I won't lose you," Trowa whispered so quietly that he wasn't sure Quatre heard. But he did hear; his light fingers ran over Trowa's face and his quiet voice answered earnestly.

"You won't."

It was a promise Trowa accepted - and confirmed it with tightening his arms around Quatre's waist, suddenly wanting to feel him closer, as close as possible. He felt Quatre holding onto him and buried his face against Quatre's shoulder. And in the cradle of the thin arms around him he felt safe and sure, for a little while, felt that everything just could be okay and they could be together. 

***********************************************************

He remembered pain but now it was gone. For a few moments he did nothing but reveled in it, in the absence of hideous claws tearing his insides. He remembered shame as well - for his own weakness that had made him scream and thrash in agony, begging people whose faces he didn't even see to stop it and kill him. Shame was there but felt blunted, distant. He wondered if being free from pain meant that he was dead. It was funny - he didn't believe in afterlife; and why would he have this rather pleasant kind of afterlife, anyway?

Treize felt a smile on his lips and at the same moment a rather annoyed voice reached him:

"Well, if you can laugh, you surely must be okay." 

Grey light broke between his trembling eyelids. Light... he hadn't seen light for so long. Yet there was nothing else he could see.

"What's so funny there, I wonder," the same irritated voice said.

"J..."

"Who else. You really got on my nerves this time, Treize. It could've happened we wouldn't be able to drag you out."

His eyelids felt enormously heavy and he couldn't see anything, so, Treize let them fall.

"I don't believe it. I died."

A huffing sound Doctor J made indicated that he was not going to condescend to answering that. A little later he continued.

"All right. You died for everyone. And I'll tell you - if you stayed at that hospital a bit longer, you would really die. But we managed to get you out in time."

"You saved me," Treize repeated.

"I hope we did."

"It was... it was cruel." He thought about the remorse that would flood him now - as soon as he had just a little strength: remorse for choosing an easy way, for leaving his people... for the words he wanted to say to Wufei, words that only death could justify. 

He asked quietly, more himself than J:

"How shall I live now?"

The doctor's voice came unexpectedly serious, almost mild.

"You'll decide it yourself. It depends on how you can live. If you have strength to keep fighting - why not? You can always come back to the world of living. I'd say it would be even... cool."

"And my vision?"

"Not much of it will come back, I'm afraid. Twenty to thirty per cent. But one can do a lot of good even with such vision. Even blind at all."

J's words made him ashamed. And as he felt it, the numbness inside him was gone suddenly, replaced with burning anguish. What had he done? He had escaped, in one way or another - but he had. And he left Wufei behind. His boy, alone, in prison, thinking that Treize was dead.

It hurt so much it made him moan.

"Shh, shh," J patted him on the shoulder without much compassion. "What's wrong?"

How could he say what was wrong? How could he admit he'd ditched his boy... What if he wouldn't see Wufei again - and it would be his fault? He couldn't even cry out.

Treize heard distantly a sound of opening door - and then quick light steps approaching the bed. He didn't even start recognizing them - but he tried to sit up, his body moving instinctively. He could see nothing but a narrow silhouette...

And then he was slapped.

"You son of bitch."

"Don't hit him, Wufei," J said, "he isn't that well yet."

"Oh." There was nothing else Treize could say.

"How could you?" Wufei asked - and then repeated, in a voice breaking with pain. "How could you? You promised you wouldn't leave me."

"He was trying to open his veins through when the help came," J said to Treize. The words were like a distant booming; he felt so weak he was about to collapse and so desolate he started shedding tears.

"Wufei... come closer."

"Why do I have to do what you want, you bastard?" Wufei said antagonistically. But then he came up and sat on the bed, and Treize felt losing the remnants of his strength. His head fell against Wufei's chest - and suddenly there were light touches of small hands on his back. Then he cried for real; not quietly, but with great sobs. The movements of the hands became hastier, gentler.

"Hey, don't be upset, it's nothing," Wufei said in an awkward voice.

"I don't want to die," Treize said. "Not any more."

"At last he said one marginally clever thing," J chuckled somewhere near.

The End

**__**

That's it :-) Good or bad, but it's finished. Million thanks for the great reviews to everyone! It was delightful to write for you, people. I feel like I got a lot of new friends during the time while I posted it. Thank you!

And my little brain is actively generating another AU... No, Zettai, stop it! You don't want to write more Treize, or Wufei, or Trowa and Quatre... Or, maybe, you do want? :-)


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